BE  STILL 
THERE'S  HEED  ®F  ME 


WALTERK,!)/ 

X CARRIE  L 


THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 


CALIFORNIA    BAIRD 


THE 

STRAIGHT  ROAD 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

C.  E.  CHAMBERS 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1917, 
BY    GEORGE    H.   DORAN    COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1918, 1017,  BY  THE  McCLURE  PUBLICATIONS,  INCORPORATED 
PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


SRLH 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  THE  DOOE  I  SHUT  BEHIND  MB     ...  0 

II.  THE  FLIGHT 35 

III.  THE  DOOE  THAT  OPENED  To  ME  .      .      .  48 

IV.  A  STALLED  Ox 59 

V.  HAEVEY  WATKINS 76 

VI.  AT  THE  ROADHOUSE 97 

VII.  THE  TUENING  OF  THE  WHEELS     .      .      .111 

VIII.  THE  GAP  IN  THE  HEDGE 132 

IX.  Miss  CHANDLEE'S  POINT  OF  VIEW      .      .  149 

X.  DELIA'S  ADDEESS 160 

XL  A  WOMAN'S  JOB 181 

XII.  ADVICE 190 

XIII.  THE  CHANCE  I  GOT 204 

XIV.  A  BEEACH .  211 

XV.  CHLOEODYNE 224 

XVI.  A  GEY  FOB  HELP 243 

XVII.  LAS  PALMAS  HOP  RANCH 263 

XVIII.  THEEE  DAYS      . 279 

XIX.  THE  COMMITTEE 289 

XX.  THE  RIOT 305 

XXL  "SAFE" 319 

XXII.  MAN'S  JUSTICE 327 

XXIII.  BELSHAZZAE'S  FEAST 339 

XXIV.  A  WITNESS                                                 .  348 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

CALIFORNIA  BAIRD Frontispiece 

PAGE 

THERE  WAS  A  HOARSE,  STARTLED  WHISPEB,  " JOE  !" 
I  SAW  A  YOUNG  WOMAN  STANDING  JUST  INSIDE 
THE  WINDOW  LOOKING  WILDLY  AT  ME  ...  72 

I  SHOVED  AT  HIM  DESPERATELY  WITH  MY  DOUBLED 
FIST,  AND  WITH  THE  OTHER  HAND  REACHED 
BLINDLY  OUT  AND  TURNED  THE  KNOB  .  .  .  106 

"TRUST  YOU  ?"     SHE  SAT  UP  SUDDENLY  FROM  HER 

LOLLING  POSITION.     "WELL HOW  ABOUT  YOU  ? 

Do  YOU  FEEL  THAT  YOU  CAN  TRUST  ME  ?"     .      .     152 

"HUH NOT  MUCH  OF  A  HAND,"  HE  SAID  IN  A  QUEER, 

HUSKY  TONE.     "N"OT  MUCH  OF  A  HAND  TO  EARN 

A  LIVING  WITH" .  184 

I  RAN  AND  GOT  HOLD  OF  DR.  RUSH'S  ARM  AND  HE 

SAID  TO  ME  OVER  AND  OVER!    "ALL  RIGHT.     I 
WON'T  HIT  HIM  AGAIN" 236 

JOE    ED    AND    I    TOILED    UP    TO    THE    CAMP    IN    THE 

BLISTERING    HEAT 270 

"HOW    WAS    IT WHERE    HAVE    YOU   BEEN,    JOE  ?"    I 

ASKED.    "WE'VE  BEEN  SO  UNEASY  ABOUT  YOU"     .        294 


THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 


THE 

STRAIGHT  ROAD 

CHAPTER  I 

THE    DOOE    I    SHUT    BEHIND    ME 

IT  BLEW  to  with  a  slam  behind  me.  Only  a  few  weeks 
beyond  my  twenty-second  birthday  I  was  leaving  my 
husband's  house,  my  only  home  since  I  came  into  it  five 
years  before,  a  bride  of  seventeen.  For  a  moment  the  shut- 
ting of  that  door  reverberated  through  all  my  universe; 
then  the  child  pulled  at  my  hand  and  questioned  in  a  small, 
excited  voice, 

"Where  we  going,  muvver  ?    Is  f aver  coming,  too  ?" 

The  answer  I  gave  my  four-year-old,  there  in  the  dark 
of  my  little  front  yard,  pungent  with  the  keen  odour  of 
the  big  eucalyptus  trees  by  the  fence,  covered  the  case  so 
far  as  I,  Callie  Baird,  then  saw  it. 

"I  don't  know  for  sure,  dearie.  Way  off  on  the  railroad. 
Father's  not  coming  with  us.  You're  mother's  big  man 
now." 

I  spoke  in  a  whisper,  listening  all  the  time  for  a  sound 
from  inside  the  house.  Had  the  slamming  of  the  door 
waked  my  husband?  In  the  dark  about  me  I  could 
scarcely  see  the  bits  of  plants  and  vines  I  had  put  out; 
the  smell  from  my  petunias — from  the  honeysuckle  at  my 
kitchen  window — made  my  heart  all  at  once  sick  and 
faint. 

But  the  door  was  shut;  the  die  was  cast.  The  note  in 
there  on  the  kitchen  table  told  Oliver  that  I  intended  to 
leave  him  and  get  a  divorce.  I  felt  a  kind  of  pitiful  pride 
in  this  letter ;  even  yet  it  seems  to  ine  a  bit  out  of  the  com- 
mon for  a  woman  of  my  age  and  in  my  situation  to  write. 

9 


10  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

It  admitted  with  humility  my  sense  of  personal  failure ;  it 
explained  that  I  was  going  away  because  I  felt  our  living 
together  to  be  immoral,  and  that  I  would  take  care  of  my- 
self and  the  child  if  I  were  allowed  a  divorce  in  peace.  My 
trunk  was  left  ready  packed  with  my  few  precious  books, 
my  own  and  Boy's  clothes;  I  would  send  for  it  when  I 
knew  how  to  answer  that  question  of  his. 

The  letter  was  the  last  of  a  number  of  such,  which  I  had 
thought  over,  agonised  over,  written,  and  then  burned. 
The  definite  intention  to  go  took  shape  in  my  mind  four 
months  earlier  when  I  was  crawling  up  from  the  desperate 
illness  that  followed  the  birth  of  my  little  girl.  The  child 
lived  only  long  enough  to  show  me  what  my  marriage 
meant  from  the  point  of  view  of  motherhood.  Boy  had 
brought  me  no  such  accusation.  Boy  was  all  mine.  I 
named  him  John  Boyce,  and  I  saw  in  him  always  my  own 
father;  not  the  father  an  ignorant,  childish  mother  had 
given  him.  My  father  had  always  understood  me,  because 
we  were  alike  mentally;  he  would  have  equipped  me  for 
life.  If  he  had  lived  I  should  not  have  been  afoot  in  the 
night,  unable  to  tell  the  child  where  we  were  going, 
shabby,  heartsick,  with  scarcely  a  cent  in  my  pocket,  and 
only  the  prospect  of  eleven  dollars  and  sixty-five  cents 
cream  money  that  I  meant  to  collect  at  Flegel's  grocery 
and  butcher  shop  on  my  way  to  the  station. 

I  was  ten  years  old  when  father  died.  The  cattle  ranch 
where  I  was  born  and  raised,  there  in  the  Oregon  hills 
above  Stanleyton,  near  the  California  state  line,  was  a  big 
property,  and  my  mother  was  no  manager.  By  the  time 
I  was  fifteen  we  had  nothing  and  were  living  down  in  the 
village,  her  whole  anxiety  to  see  me  old  enough  to  marry. 
She  had  been  an  uncommonly  pretty  girl;  she  had  mar- 
ried early,  to  become  the  petted  wife  of  a  strong  man. 
Her  outlook  on  life  was  the  sheltered  woman's.  All  its 
harsher,  fundamental  facts  were  indecent  in  her  eyes; 
she  kept  from  me  what  she  could — and  indeed  that  was 


THE  DOOR  I  SHUT  BEHIND  ME  11 

nearly  everything.  Peace  be  to  the  poor  little  pretty 
mother  who  thought  she  had  done  her  part  so  well  by  me 
when  she  manoauvred  me  into  the  marriage  I  was  now  run- 
ning away  from,  and  saw  that  I  went  into  it  as  ignorant 
of  what  it  meant,  almost,  as  I  would  have  been  at  seven 
instead  of  seventeen. 

I  never  could  be  quite  sure  as  to  whether  or  not  she 
understood  the  failure  of  that  marriage.  She  lived  right 
there  in  the  house  with  it  till  after  Jacky-Boy  was  born, 
and  given  father's  name.  On  the  small  dairy  ranch  above 
Meaghers,  we  two  women  worked  hard  together,  but  we 
didn't  talk  much  over  our  work.  She  seemed  to  be  failing. 
When  the  baby  came  she  used  to  sit  by  the  hour  holding 
him,  rocking  a  little,  never  saying  a  word.  Six  months 
after  that  we  carried  her  back  to  the  ranch  to  lay  her  be- 
side father  in  the  little  family  burying  ground  that  had 
been  reserved  there.  And  I  attacked  alone  the  problem  of 
life  with  a  man  I  had  not  wittingly  chosen  at  all. 

Do  not  think  I  blame  my  mother.  She  could  never 
have  married  me  to  Oliver  Baird  if  it  had  not  been  for 
the  shipwreck  of  a  boy-and-girl  love  affair  between  me  and 
Philip  Stanley. 

A  boy-and-girl  love  affair — authority  holds  it  cheap,  and 
speaks  easily  of  "breaking  it  up" ;  yet  I  believe  that  there 
are  men  and  women  who  go  all  their  days,  face  over 
shoulder,  looking  back  to  that  place  in  the  way  where 
real  love,  who  had  been  of  their  company,  left  them. 

It  seemed  to  me  when  my  time  came  that  no  item  of 
pain  and  humiliation  was  spared,  no  mercy  was  shown  me. 
They  tore  down  my  gossamer-spun  dwelling  of  dreams  as 
an  energetic  woman,  sweeping  her  house,  drags  down  a 
cobweb  with  the  broom.  Every  least  little  detail  stands 
out  in  my  memory — ice  and  fire.  For  years  I  was  burnt 
or  frozen  whenever  my  mind  touched  a  corner  of  it. 

Philip  was  the  only  son  of  the  richest  people  in  the  vil- 
lage. Back  in  father's  time  when  I,  a  small  girl,  used  to 


12  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

ride  my  pony  down  to  school,  Philip  was  the  terror  of  the 
primary  grades,  his  offences  passed  over  because  everybody 
was  afraid  of  his  father.  Fine-looking,  fastidious  gentle- 
man that  he  was,  L.  C.  Stanley's  outrageous  temper  had 
brought  him  into  more  than  one  fist  fight  on  the  public 
street.  People  who  were  getting  along  with  Mr.  Stanley 
admired  him  very  much ;  and  I'm  sure  Philip,  if  he  liked 
you,  could  be  very  .kind ;  when  he  loved  you,  he  was  sweet- 
ness itself.  But  the  place  was  full  of  gossip  about  the 
Stanley  home  life,  the  continual  clashes  of  father  and  son, 
whippings  that  went  on  there,  till  the  boy  was  a  young 
athlete  big  enough  to  turn  on  his  tyrant,  so  that  the  mother 
was  frightened,  and  stood  between  them.  I  knew  the 
worst  about  all  these  things ;  for  from  the  first  I  had  been 
Philip's  chosen,  from  whom  he  kept  back  nothing.  And 
on  my  part,  I  can't  remember  when  I  wasn't  so  in  love 
with  him  that  it  was  like  a  religion,  a  conversion,  an  apoth- 
eosis. The  mere  sight  of  him  in  the  other  classroom  of 
a  morning — making  everybody  else  look  cheap  and  poor — 
would  leave  me  happy  for  all  day.  He  was  four  years 
older  than  I,  but  he  had  been  so  unruly,  and  so  irregular 
in  his  attendance  that  high  school  found  us  still  in  the 
same  Latin  class.  Nobody  else  knew  it,  but  I  was  the 
reason  for  Philip's  being  in  that  class.  He  was  with  a 
tutor  that  year,  getting  ready  for  Stanford ;  but  he  held 
to  this  one  period  in  the  Stanley  ton  public  school,  because 
it  gave  him  a  chance  to  see  me  every  day,  and  carry  my 
books  home.  He  didn't  want  anybody  else  to  come 
near  me.  It  wasn't  any  trouble  for  him,  a  high  school 
boy,  to  send  Harvey  Watkins,  a  young  man  already 
out  in  the  village  world  attacking  affairs  of  his  own,  to 
the  right-about  when  he  tried  to  be  a  bit  sentimental 
over  me. 

And  what  a  wonderful-looking  boy  he  was — a  young 
prince  among  the  others!  He  wore  his  faults  like  orna- 
ments; it  just  became  him  to  be  so  haughty  and  harsh  and 


THE  DOOR  I  SHUT  BEHIND  ME  13 

secretive.  Nothing  was  too  good  for  him;  he  was  reck- 
lessly extravagant,  and  I  suppose  his  parents  thought  that 
the  only  way  to  hold  on  to  their  formidable  son  was  to 
shut  down  on  the  money.  He  never  had  an  allowance,  so 
that  what  he  spent — much  or  little — could  always  be  a 
cause  of  quarrel.  Philip  had  awful  times  with  his  father 
over  tailor  and  livery  bills,  and  the  expenses  of  his  vaca- 
tion trips.  When  the  other  boys  were  getting  class  pins  at 
two  dollars  apiece,  he  had  his  mounted  in  platinum  and 
with  a  real  diamond,  so  that  it  cost  seventy-five.  The  year 
that  he  was  twenty  and  I  was  sixteen,  he  made  bills  so 
recklessly  that  his  father  threatened  to  advertise  in  the 
paper  that  he  wouldn't  be  responsible  for  them.  That 
didn't  stop  Philip.  He  justified  himself — said  that  his 
father  was  rich  and  he  the  only  heir — that  the  money  he 
spent  was  really  his.  In  a  sense  that  was  true.  But  then 
he  did  something,  I  never  knew  just  what,  that  made  him 
liable  to  the  law,  and  they  had  the  worst  scene  of  all  over 
that.  He  didn't  tell  me  a  word  of  this  till  afterward — 
not  because  he  was  ashamed  of  it;  Philip  was  never 
ashamed  of  anything  he  did — but  because  this  time  the 
quarrel  concerned  me. 

I  realise  now  that  mother  hoped  everything  from  that 
childish  attachment.  She  had  begun  asking  me  about 
Philip — if  he  had  kissed  me,  if  he  said  he  loved  me,  and 
if  marriage  had  ever  been  mentioned  between  us.  I  was 
overwhelmed  with  shame.  It  seemed  like  conspiring 
against  him  to  think  of  such  things. 

And  yet,  so  curiously  is  the  human  heart  made,  I  be- 
lieve my  mother's  words  precipitated  matters,  for  the  af- 
fair between  Philip  and  me  came  suddenly  to  flower.  I 
couldn't  get  away  from  the  thoughts  she  had  put  in  my 
head,  and  it  was  as  though  he  read  them  in  my  eyes  and 
took  fire  from  their  suggestion.  I  don't  remember  when 
or  where  it  began,  but  all  at  once  he  was  talking  to  me 
about  being  married  to  him,  and  we  had  kissed  each  other 


14  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

— and  knew  that  there  could  never  be  anybody  else  for 
either  of  us  as  long  as  we  both  lived ! 

First  love,  boy-and-girl  love,  is  such  a  fiery,  innocent 
thing,  unconscious  of  its  real  power,  yet  proposing  to  re- 
build the  whole  world  for  its  dwelling.  In  those  days — 
oh,  how  few,  how  few  they  were! — it  was  not  merely 
a  look  at  Philip  that  set  me  trembling  with  happiness 
for  hours;  if  we  could  get  a  moment  out  of  sight  it  was 
a  kiss — a  boy's  kiss,  snatched,  clumsy,  but  with  the 
flame,  the  swimming  ecstasy  of  youth  in  it.  Oh,  the  mem- 
ory of  such  a  love  ought  to  keep  a  woman  from  those 
spiritual  compromises  which  are  the  beginning  of  moral 
death. 

I  didn't  tell  my  mother,  but  of  course  she  guessed. 
She  dressed  me  BO  carefully,  and  told  me  again  and  again 
how  pretty  I  was  growing.  She  knew  what  lit  my  eye 
and  painted  a  new  bloom  on  my  cheeks. 

Then  came  a  day  when  the  first  moment  I  looked  at 
Philip  across  the  school  room,  I  was  conscious  of  a  change, 
of  deep  disturbance,  in  him.  He  whispered  to  me  as  we 
were  filing  from  study  hall  to  recitation  room  for  our  Latin 
that  he  must  see  me  that  evening.  Silently,  infected  by 
the  hidden  excitement  of  his  mood,  I  walked  beside  him 
out  to  Kesterson's  pasture  after  school,  where  we  sat  nn- 
der  a  big  live-oak  by  the  creek.  He  seemed  strange,  and 
that  made  me  feel  strange,  too.  But  he  had  never  been 
so  openly  my  lover.  He  wanted  to  have  me  in  his  arms, 
to  kiss  me  every  minute.  I  would  have  been  crazy  with 
joy  if  I  hadn't  been  so  frightened  all  the  time  at  the 
chance  of  our  being  seen. 

"What  is  it,  Philip  ?"  I  whispered,  at  last 

"Callie,"  he  said,  taking  hold  of  me  again,  "we've  had 
it  out  at  last,  up  at  our  house.  Father  threatened  to  send 
me  to  jail  this  time.  I  told  him  to  go  ahead  and  do  it — 
and  then  he  wanted  to  lick  me." 

The  muscles  of  the  best  football  player  on  the  team 


THE  DOOR  I  SHUT  BEHIND  ME  15 

laughed  under  mj  cheek  as  Philip  said  that.  He  shook 
me  a  little  in  his  arms. 

"Mother  put  in  her  oar.  We've  compromised.  I'm  go- 
ing to  San  Francisco  Wednesday,  to  be  gone  for  a  month." 

"To  San  Francisco — for  a  month!"  I  clung  to  him. 
"Oh,  Philip— why?" 

"To  get  a  job.  If  I  had  a  job  you  and  I  could  be  mar- 
ried," he  said,  unsteadily,  and  his  heart  plunged  so  that  I 
could  feel  it  where  my  head  rested  against  him. 

Philip  hunting  a  job — so  we  could  be  married!  One 
idea  was  as  bewildering  as  the  other.  I  looked  at  him. 
He  had  always  poured  out  his  heart  to  me;  but  now  he 
was  keeping  something  back,  and  I  dared  not  question  him. 
With  his  arms  around  me,  his  lips  thrilling  against  mine, 
I  was  afraid  to  be  told. 

Our  parting  had  been  so  tumultuous  that  it  was  only 
after  he  was  gone  I  realised  he  had  said  nothing  of  our 
writing  to  each  other.  This  seemed  strange,  for  we  used 
to  exchange  notes  very  often,  living  here  in  the  same  town. 
But  I  thought  of  course  he  would  write  and  send  me  an 
address;  then  I'd  get  a  letter  every  day  and  have  the 
chance  to  write  to  him  daily.  I  waited  in  a  tremor  of 
expectation  for  that  first  letter.  Monday,  Tuesday,  Wed- 
nesday— by  the  middle  of  the  week  I  was  uneasy.  Thurs- 
day, Friday,  Saturday — I  was  wild  with  anxiety.  My 
nerves  were  jerking  at  every  little  start.  I  would  jump 
and  scream  at  every  sound.  I  could  not  keep  from  steal- 
ing past  the  Stanley  house,  though  it  was  a  square  out  of 
my  way  to  and  from  school.  That  month  was  an  age-long, 
agonising  strain.  No  letter  came.  I  had  nobody  I  dared 
tell.  My  mother  suspected,  I  suppose,  and  I  was  grate- 
ful to  her  for  not  speaking  out.  Then,  on  the  last  Friday 
morning,  when  I  was  slipping  past  the  hedge  by  the  Stan- 
ley place  on  my  way  to  school,  furtively  watching  the  win- 
dows, Philip's  mother  stopped  me  and  asked  me  to  come 
and  see  her  the  next  afternoon.  She  seemed  to  have  been 


16  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

working  at  her  roses,  with  gloves  drawn  over  her  white 
hands  and  a  broad  hat  on;  she  offered  me  some  flowers 
as  we  talked.  She  was  a  fine-looking  woman,  always 
perfectly  dressed,  and  her  likeness  to  Philip  made  me 
ready  to  lay  my  face  in  the  dust  before  her  and  worship 
her. 

The  revulsion  from  despair  to  hope  was  almost  more 
than  I  could  bear-  I  felt  myself  blushing  hotly.  I  could 
hardly  speak.  I  had  never  exchanged  more  than  a  dozen 
words  with  her  before ;  there  was  no  social  relation  between 
our  little  house  and  the  Stanley  place.  My  whole  being 
was  tremulous  with  the  thought  that  she  had  been  watch- 
ing for  me — her  invitation  must  mean  that  everything 
was  all  right.  Oh,  supposing  Philip  was  expected  home 
the  next  day,  and  she  wanted  me  to  meet  him!  I  got 
through  the  Friday  classes  somehow.  I  was  almost  glad 
that  Philip  had  not  written  me  during  the  month.  The 
outcome  would  be  all  the  more  splendid  and  rapturous  for 
the  misery  I  had  passed  through.  When  I  got  home  to 
my  mother,  she,  though  she  knew  so  much  less  than  I  did 
of  how  far  things  had  gone,  jumped  at  once  to  the  con- 
clusion that  Mrs.  Stanley  wanted  to  get  better  acquainted 
with  me  because  of  Philip,  and  that  she  wasn't  unfavour- 
able. 

Mother  washed  my  white  shirt-waist  after  ten  o'clock 
that  night,  and  the  last  I  knew  as  I  went  to  sleep  was  the 
sight  of  her  sitting  by  the  lamp  darning  a  rip  in  my  skirt. 
Next  day  she  fussed  a  long  time  over  getting  me  ready.  I 
ought  to  look  just  perfect,  but  still  I  mustn't  seem  too  much 
dressed  up.  Mother  kissed  me  when  I  left,  and  called  me 
by  Philip's  name  in  a  whisper.  It  made  my  face  flame — 
and  that  made  her  laugh  a  little  shaky  laugh  that  was  al- 
most like  crying. 

Mrs.  Stanley  met  me  with  friendly  courtesy,  yet,  in- 
experienced village  girl  as  I  was,  I  missed  something  in 
that  reception.  Its  chill  fell  on  me  as  we  crossed  the  porch 


THE  DOOR  I  SHUT  BEHIND  ME  17 

— she  had  been  waiting  for  me  on  the  front  steps.  I  knew 
before  I  was  seated  in  the  handsome  parlour  that  things 
were  not  going  to  be  as  my  mother  and  I  had  hoped. 

I  can  never  go  over  that  interview  with  Mrs.  Stanley  in 
my  mind  completely ;  I  get  confused  before  I  come  to  the 
end  of  it,  and  it  is  just  one  recollection  of  pain  and  hu- 
miliation— ice  and  fire,  as  I  said.  She  began  with  real 
feeling:  Philip  was  their  only  son;  she  and  Mr.  Stanley 
were  very  ambitious  for  him.  I  tried  to  answer  with  rea- 
sonable calmness  that  everybody  knew  Philip  was  going 
to  be  a  great  man,  and  there  wasn't  anything  too  good  for 
him.  In  my  confusion  I  must  have  spoken  as  though  that 
brilliant  future  of  his  would  be  concerned  with  mine,  for 
the  first  thing  I  knew  she  was  telling  me  that  nothing  could 
be  more  ruinous  to  Philip  than  trying  to  tie  him  up  now 
with  a  childish  love  affair.  She  looked  at  me  sitting  there 
twisting  my  handkerchief  between  my  hands;  I  thought 
she  pitied  me,  for  she  said,  hastily: 

"I'm  considering  you,  too,  as  well  as  my  boy.  I'm  glad 
you  realise  that  Philip  has  the  makings  of  a  big  man.  I've 
lived  longer  than  you,  my  dear  girl ;  I've  seen  many  a  man 
go  ahead  in  the  world,  outgrow  the  woman  he  married  too 
young — too  young — long  for  his  freedom,  or  maybe  take 
it ;  and  then  there's  nothing  but  misery  in  it  for  both." 

" — Engagement "  I  choked. 

"Oh,"  cried  Mrs.  Stanley,  impatiently,  "how  little  you 
realise !  That  would  not  be  fair  to  you.  I  am  not  willing 
to  see  my  son  absorbing  all  your  attention  during  these 
years  in  which  you  might  be  making  a  suitable  match,  only 
to  fail  you  in  the  end." 

She  seemed  sure  that  he  would  fail  me  in  the  end. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  asked  a  voice  that  I 
hardly  recognised  as  my  own. 

"Well,  Mr.  Stanley  thinks  that  you  ought,  if  you  are  a 
right-minded  girl,  to  return  any  signed  letters  you  may 
have  of  Philip's.  The  boy's  not  of  age — of  course  his  sig- 


18  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

nature  doesn't  count — but  we  feel  that  vou  ought  to  do 
that.  The  gifts  you  might  keep." 

"All — I'll  send  them  all,"  I  said,  in  despair. 

I  was  going ;  I  was  giving  up ;  but  through  the  window 
I  caught  sight  of  Philip  himself,  walking  in  the  side  yard 
under  the  trees,  sending  glances  toward  the  house,  as 
though  he  were  waiting  for  me.  Instead  of  the  rapture  I 
had  looked  forward  to  after  that  awful  month,  I  felt  only 
a  strange  sinking  of  the  heart — longing,  fear,  pain.  Yet 
I  turned  and  came  back. 

"Mrs.  Stanley,"  I  said,  "did  you  know  that  Philip  went 
to  San  Francisco  to  get  work  so  that  we  could  be  married  ?" 

She  laughed  out  angrily. 

"I  should  think  that  I  did  know:  we  sent  him.  If  he 
can  support  a  wife,  he  may  choose  one  for  himself.  If 
we've  got  her  to  support,  Mr.  Stanley  and  I  think  we 
ought  to  have  something  to  say  about  who  she  shall  be." 

"And  he— and  he "  I  faltered. 

"Perhaps  you'd  better  go  and  talk  to  him,"  she  inter- 
rupted. 

I  whirled  and  ran.  I  blundered  down  the  steps,  across 
the  trim,  gravelled  walks  and  brilliant,  crowded  flower 
beds,  my  starved  heart  crying  out  for  Philip.  He  did  not 
take  one  step  toward  me ;  he  had  drawn  back,  and  stood  so 
that  we  came  together  in  a  little  alley  of  the  grounds. 
Tall  trees  walled  in  a  seclusion  overlooked  only  by  the  an- 
gels of  God  from  the  sky ;  yet  my  impetuous  boy  lover  of 
a  month  ago  made  no  motion  to  touch  me.  His  head  was 
up,  but  the  face  he  showed  was  white.  The  month  had 
left  him  worn  and  hollow-eyed.  I  knew  in  the  first  mo- 
ment that  he  hadn't  wanted  to  see  me;  he  had  put  me 
outside  the  barrier.  He  didn't  speak.  I  had  to  begin. 

"Oh,  Philip!"  It  burst  from  me,  though  I  was  des- 
perately anxious  not  to  offend.  "Whv  didn't  you  write  to 
me?"  ' 


THE  DOOR  I  SHUT  BEHIND  ME  19 

"Promised  not  to."  His  first  word — and  in  what  a 
strange  voice ! 

"Why  didn't  you  let  me  write  to  you,  then  ?  I'd  have 
been  glad." 

"Promised  that,  too."  He  was  staring  straight  in  my 
face.  I  had  seen  him  look  at  other  people  that  way,  and 
wondered  how  they  could  stand  it.  "He  wouldn't  let  me 
have  the  money  to  go  unless  I'd  give  my  word.  I  had  to 

have  money.  Even  with  it "  He  stopped  a  moment ; 

an  agony  of  crimson  came  up  in  his  haggard,  arrogant 
young  face — "I  couldn't  get  any  job." 

"Oh,  Philip — I  didn't  want  you  to Not  for  me — 

not  for  me !" 

He  didn't  seem  to  hear  me 

"What  did  mother  say  to  you  in  there  ?"  he  asked,  very 
low. 

"She  made  me  promise  to  give  you  up — for  always. 
But  you  won't If  we After  a  while " 

Philip  stood  and  looked  long  on  the  ground.  When  his 
gaze  at  last  came  up  to  mine,  I  wondered  what  I  had  done 
to  him  to  make  him  look  so  terrible. 

"What's  the  use  ?"  he  demanded,  huskily.  "We'll  have 
to  give  it  up.  They've  got  us.  She  didn't  tell  you.  Cal- 
lie,  you  know  what  I  said  about  his  sending  me  to  jail  ? 
I  tried  to  get  enough  that  time  for  us  to  marry  on — and 
he's  got  the  proofs.  Not  that  I'm  ashamed  or  sorry — he's 
the  one  to  be  ashamed — it's  all  his  fault.  But  he's  got 
the  proofs;  and  he'll  send  me  to  penitentiary — he's  just 
mad  enough — unless  I — unless  we " 

"Oh,  we  will — we  will — anything "  It  was  all  that 

I  could  say. 

Again  he  stood  looking  on  the  ground,  bitter  and  piti- 
ful, that  haughty  lip  of  his  set  hard  to  steady  the  trem- 
bling. I  ought  to  have  gone  then,  but  I  couldn't  drag  my- 
self away.  I  thought  there  would  be  something  more — 


20  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

some  kind  of  good-bye.  Suddenly  he  looked  up  at  me  and 
burst  out: 

"They  said  it  would  be  just  like  it  was  with  Uncle  Milt. 
Huh,  Milt's  a  boob!  But,  at  that,  he'd  have  done  well 
enough  if  they  hadn't  thrown  him  down.  They  wouldn't 
have  thrown  him  down  if  he  hadn't  married " 

"Don't — oh,  please  don't!"  I  whispered,  covering  my 
face. 

When  Philip's  Uncle  Milton,  Lucius  Stanley's  younger 
brother,  married  a  waitress  at  the  Depot  Hotel,  it  set  every- 
body talking  about  the  poor  thing's  reputation,  that  had 
never  been  very  good.  Of  course,  the  family  was  furious. 
Milt  Stanley  hadn't  amounted  to  much.  Now,  with  his 
brother  against  him,  he  went  down  terribly.  He  worked 
at  such  odd  jobs  as  he  could  get  about  town;  sometimes 
he  did  house-cleaning.  She  was  worse  talked  about  than 
ever,  though  it  could  be  seen  that  more  than  half  the  time 
she  kept  bread  in  their  mouths.  To  this  squalid  village 
shame  a  possible  marriage  with  me  was  compared. 

I  had  no  heart  for  resentment.  I  wasn't  the  least  bit 
angry.  Philip's  only  way  of  meeting  this  defeat  and  hu- 
miliation was  to  put  me  outside  and  keep  me  outside,  be- 
cause the  sight — the  thought,  even — of  me  now  was  still 
more  wounding  and  humiliating.  But  I  could  see  that  he 
was  suffering,  in  there  where  he  would  not  let  me  come. 
There  was  a  dull  wonder  in  my  mind  that  he  should  not 
care  for  even  a  good-bye  kiss — then  a  sort  of  terror  that 
this  was  so !  Was  that  all  there  would  be  to  it  ?  Was  love 
like  this? 

I  turned;  I  had  to  go  away  and  leave  him  standing 
there,  looking  strange  and  sort  of  desperate.  All  I  knew 
was  that  I  didn't  know  anything  about  him  any  more. 

I  went  out  to  Kesterson's  pasture — it  was  the  only 
handy  place  where  I  could  be  sure  of  being  alone — and 
walked  up  and  down  and  up  and  down  in  a  dumb,  blind 
agony  for  a  long  time,  looking  away  from  the  big  live-oak 


THE  DOOR  I  SHUT  BEHIND  ME  21 

where  Philip  had  held  me  in  his  arms  and  said  he  was 
going  to  get  a  job  and  marry  me,  thinking  how  was  I  ever 
to  go  home  to  mother  with  the  story.  Finally  I  started, 
very  slowly.  When  I  came  in  sight  of  our  little  rented 
house,  there  was  mother  at  the  gate,  gazing  up  and  down 
the  sidewalk  for  me,  because  in  getting  back  from  Mrs. 
Stanley's  I  might  come  from  either  direction,  according  to 
the  cross-street  I  chose  to  take.  I  looked  around  me;  I 
would  rather  have  died  then  and  there  than  to  keep  on 
and  meet  her  questions.  We  got  into  the  house  some- 
how, and  there  I  broke  down  and  cried  so  that  I  scared 
her — I  even  believe  I  screamed  some. 

Perhaps  it  was  best  so.  She  had  to  stop  questioning 
and  soothe  me;  and  I  felt  after  a  while  that  I  must  con- 
trol myself  for  her  sake.  She  got  me  to  drink  a  cup  of 
tea ;  she  put  my  feet  in  hot  water,  and  we  two  disappointed, 
discredited  things  finally  crept  to  bed. 

When,  next  day,  it  came  to  making  the  little  packet  to, 
send  to  Philip,  she  stood  by  protesting : 

"I  wouldn't  do  it,  Gallic.    I  wouldn't  do  that,  dear." 

"I  promised,"  I  said,  holding  my  head  down.  I  couldn't 
tell  her  that  Philip  himself  had  failed  me. 

"Promised!"  she  echoed  with  all  a  primitive  woman's 
contempt. 

Poor  little  mother,  she  had  no  business  sense;  she  lost 
the  ranch ;  we  owed  bills  in  every  direction.  But  she  did 
not  lack  instinctive  womanly  wisdom;  she  would  have 
fought  for  her  hand;  she  would  have  tried — tried  des- 
perately and  at  all  costs — to  keep  her  lover. 

I  let  him  go.  But  when  he  was  gone  I  couldn't  have 
been  said  to  be  disappointed  in  love — I  was  disappointed 
in  life — I  was  just  killed,  dead  and  buried.  Nobody  knew 
— my  mother  least  of  all — as  nobody  had  known  how 
dreadfully  I  was  in  love  with  him.  There  was  a  year  be- 
tween me  and  my  graduation.  At  first  mother  had  to  get 
me  up  and  dress  me  and  help  me  off  to  school  as  though  I 


22  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

had  been  an  invalid.  But  after  a  while  I  took  hold  of 
my  school  work  for  comfort,  and  when  the  year  had  gone 
by  I  was  even  not  offended  at  mother's  efforts  to  make  a 
match  between  me  and  a  man  who  had  rented  one  of 
our  rooms.  He  was  a  good  deal  older  than  I,  and  was  look- 
ing about  for  a  little  dairy  ranch. 

If  Philip  and  I  were  not  to  marry,  it  didn't  matter 
what  became  of  me.  With  him  vanished  out  of  my  life, 
for  the  time,  not  only  love,  but  every  gleam  of  girlish  am- 
bition. Mother  couldn't  bear  the  thought  of  my  standing 
in  a  store,  or  even  teaching  school.  She  craved  for  me 
the  woman's  ancient  heritage  of  husband,  home  and  chil- 
dren. And  when  Oliver  Baird  finally  did  ask  me,  and  I 
accepted  him,  she  was  so  pleased;  she  was  so  proud  that 
the  white  dress  I  had  for  high  school  graduation  should 
also  be  my  wedding  gown. 

I  was  seventeen;  I  took  the  man  I  could  get — or  that 
she  got  for  me — took  him,  I  may  say,  thankfully,  and  in 
whole-hearted  ignorance  of  what  I  was  really  doing.  I 
told  him  honestly  that  I  could  not  love  him,  that  I  be- 
lieved love  and  I  had  parted  ways  forever.  He  was  will- 
ing to  have  me  on  those  terms !  He  had  finally  bought  his 
dairy  ranch  at  Meaghers,  just  across  the  State  line  in  Sis- 
kiyou  County;  we  were  married  and  went  to  live  there, 
mother  going  with  us.  Crossing  into  California  seemed 
to  me  somehow  like  getting  nearer  to  father ;  he  had  come 
from  there,  he  always  loved  the  State,  and  named  me 
for  it 

The  reason  that  I  could  tolerate  Oliver  Baird  in  the  in- 
timacies of  courtship  and  marriage  seemed  to  be  that  he 
was  at  all  points  the  opposite  of  Philip.  He  was  as  apart 
from  that  boy  lover  of  mine  as  though  they  had  not  both 
been  human  males.  A  man  who  had  reminded  me  of 
Philip  I  could  not  have  married;  but  this  one  never 
breathed  that  air  of  young  love's  region ;  he  never  walked 
there.  Without  ideals,  or  illusions;  inert,  negative;  he 


THE  DOOR  I  SHUT  BEHIND  ME  23 

wanted  only  the  lees  of  mating,  and  he  resented  the  intru- 
sion of  a  child  that  roiled  those  dregs  and  brought  me 
enough  womanhood  to  feel  that  whatever  such  a  marriage 
might  be  to  Oliver,  to  me  it  was  an  unhallowed,  a  wicked 
thing. 

It  was  John  Boyce's  birth  that  showed  it  to  me  first; 
and  after  the  little  girl,  who  only  lived  long  enough  to  let 
me  see  that  she  had  her  father's  loose  mouth  and  ungainly 
hand,  I  knew  that  my  crime  was  not  against  myself  alone. 
I  had  never  heard  of  eugenics.  In  my  marriage  I  had 
hugged  the  dream  of  children.  Mine  was  always  a  hungry 
heart.  It  was  not  alone  being  loved  that  could  comfort 
me ;  I  yearned  always  for  something  that  I  could  love ;  but 
the  tragic  outcome  of  this  meddling  with  the  source  of 
humanity,  this  bringing  children  into  the  world  who 
should  never  have  been  born,  ah1  to  medicine  a  heartsick 
girl's  pain,  came  to  look  to  me  almost  as  terribly  wicked 
as  it  is.  I  suffered.  In  those  days  if  anybody  had  asked 
me  what  was  the  matter,  I  should  have  answered  like  an 
ailing  child,  "Everything."  I  ached  in  every  member  of 
my  life.  There  was  nothing,  it  seemed,  that  did  not  hurt 
me. 

When  we  are  young  we  wonder  what  our  humiliations 
and  our  agonies  are  for.  Mine  had  driven  me  thus  far. 
Their  whip  was  on  my  back  that  April  night  as  I  bent  to 
pull  the  gate  shut  after  me,  setting  down  the  suit-case  to 
do  it,  hooking  the  chain  over  to  make  it  fast,  though  it 
came  to  me  painfully  that  to-morrow  there  would  be  no- 
body to  care  if  the  pigs  and  cows  got  in  and  destroyed  all 
the  flowers  I  had  worked  so  hard  over.  As  I  got  Boy 
through  the  gate  there  was  a  metallic  clank.  I  reached 
down  to  see  what  he  had. 

"Bud'n  go  'long — bud'n  wants  to  go,"  he  exclaimed,  de- 
fensively. 

Bud'n — the  word  was  Boy's  way  of  saying  bug — was 
a  brass  paper-weight  belonging  to  the  child's  father.  Why 


24  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

Boy  should  have  been  so  infatuated  with  it  let  the  psychol- 
ogist of  childhood  explain — I  never  could  tell.  The  thing 
was  clumsy,  heavy,  ugly — a  realistic  representation  of  a 
gigantic  fly,  whose  wings  lifted  up,  allowing  the  hollow 
body  beneath  to  be  used  for  a  pen  box.  Perhaps  Boy's 
determination  to  possess  and  play  with  this  thing  was 
made  so  strong  because  his  father  ordered  him  to  let  it 
alone.  Certainly  Oliver  and  his  son  remained  strangers 
to  the  last.  This  trumpery  toy  had  been  the  cause  of  more 
than  one  battle  royal  between  them.  I  had  meant  to  leave 
it  safe  on  the  table ;  but  I  could  not  for  the  life  of  me  turn 
back  and  carry  it  in  now.  I  would  drop  it  on  the  garden 
walk. 

"No !"  Boy  resisted  when  I  attempted  to  take  it  away 
from  him.  His  raised,  shrill  little  voice  set  my  heart 
thumping  with  apprehension.  "No!  I  will  carry  my 
bud'n.  Bud'n  wants  to  go,  too." 

"Sssh !"  I  cautioned,  and  we  set  out,  Boy  with  his  bud'n, 
I  with  my  suit-case.  There  had  been  a  little  new  moon  at 
sunset,  but  it  was  gone  now.  The  hills  made  a  dark  rim 
all  around  the  horizon;  on  their  slopes  I  could  see  here 
and  there  winking  lights — homes  of  small  ranchers  like 
ourselves.  Looking  at  them,  my  thought  coloured  by  my 
own  experience,  I  wondered  if  any  one  of  those  roofs  cov- 
ered a  sort  of  domestic  inferno.  It  must  be  so.  I  couldn't 
be  the  only  one  who  had  made  a  mess  of  life.  But  I  knew 
I  was  the  only  one  who  was  escaping  to-night. 

Halfway  down  the  hill  Boy  gave  out.  First  he  handed 
me  his  bud'n,  then  took  it  back  jealously,  hugged  it  to 
him,  and  insisted  that  I  must  carry  them  both.  I  argued 
a  bit,  but  the  outcome  was  that  I  shouldered  my  baby, 
picked  up  my  suit-case  and  went  on  toward  the  valley, 
Flegel's  and  the  station. 

I  must  hurry  or  the  grocery  would  be  closed,  and  the 
Flegels  gone  upstairs  for  the  night.  I  had  to  have  that 
money  to  take  me  and  the  boy  to  San  Vincente  in  one  of 


THE  DOOR  I  SHUT  BEHIND  ME  25 

the  valleys  of  the  California  fruit  belt.  I  had  had  a  girl's 
reason  for  selecting  San  Vicente.  Nearly  seven  years  be- 
fore, Delia  Rogers,  from  there,  had  visited  our  next-door 
neighbours.  She  was  a  rather  full-blown  young  lady,  own- 
ing to  twenty-five,  and  bluntly  announced  by  her  aunt  as 
older,  and  I  a  little  past  fifteen.  They  were  a  childless 
couple,  and  despite  the  disparity  in  our  years,  I  was  called 
on  to  help  Mrs.  Rogers  out  when  she  wanted  to  entertain 
young  people  for  Delia.  In  those  days  I  was  poor  only 
in  money.  Delia  soon  spent  most  of  her  time  at  our  house, 
sleeping  in  my  little  bedroom  more  often  than  at  her 
uncle's.  It  was  the  year  before  Philip  went  east.  "Down 
at  Callie  Boyce's  house"  was  the  synonym  for  a  lively 
frolic  among  the  Stanleyton  young  people,  where  all  ages 
gathered  indiscriminately  to  make  up  a  circle.  Harvey 
Watkins  was  so  much  older  than  the  rest  of  the  boys  that, 
till  the  San  Vicente  visitor  came,  there  was  no  one  any- 
where near  his  age  to  pair  him  off  with.  Harvey  was  a 
little  set  apart  in  our  crowd,  too,  from  the  fact  that  he 
was  a  widower.  He  had  made  a  very  young  marriage,  and 
his  bride  had  lived  only  five  or  six  months.  He  showed 
Delia  Rogers  a  good  deal  of  attention.  He  afterward  went 
to  San  Vicente  himself,  entered  a  law  firm  there,  and  mar- 
ried her.  I  hadn't  heard  from  either  of  them  since  the 
marriage,  yet  I  hoped  they  would  both  befriend  me  now. 

It  was  hard  work  carrying  that  baby  and  suit-case  down 
the  hill;  I  tried  several  times  to  get  Boy  to  walk,  but  he 
was  very  sleepy,  though  I'd  given  him  an  extra  long  nap 
that  afternoon.  It  got  worse  and  worse;  my  arms  felt  as 
though  they  would  drop  off.  Again  and  again  I  had  to 
stop  and  rest;  and  when  I  finally  got  down  to  Flegel's  I 
was  soaked  with  perspiration  and  shaking  all  over,  glad 
enough  that  my  old  grey  sweater  was  a  sleazy  thing. 

I  could  have  cried  when  I  found  the  store  closed. 
Everybody  knew  what  Mrs.  Flegel  was;  an  ill-natured 
woman  with  a  bad  tongue,  and  crazy  jealous  of  her  hus- 


26  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

band.  Women  being  jealous  of  their  husbands  was  a  thing 
that  had  never  troubled  me  up  to  this  moment.  But  when 
I  stood  in  front  of  the  store  and  wanted  to  get  that  money, 
I  found  that  I  dreaded  to  meet  Mrs.  Flegel.  I  knocked 
half  reluctantly  on  the  store  door,  in  hopes  that  Flegel 
himself  would  answer.  Nobody  came.  I  knocked  again, 
louder.  Boy  roused  and  looked  around  wonderingly. 

"Where  are  we,  Muwer  ?"  he  asked,  drowsily. 

"At  Flegel's  grocery  store,  dearie." 

"You  goin'  to  get  Boy  candy  ?"  He  showed  sudden  in- 
terest. 

"Not  just  now."  I  walked  around  to  the  back  stairs 
and  stood  there  looking  up  at  the  light,  listening. 

"Dear,"  I  said,  "will  you  be  a  brave  boy  and  stay  here 
with  the  suit-case  while  mother  goes  upstairs?  She  can 
look  right  down  on  you  all  the  time." 

"Will  I  get  the  candy  if  I  stay  ?" 

"After  we  get  on  the  train,  Boyce,  if  you'll  be  a  big, 
brave  boy." 

"Uh-huh — Boycie  stay." 

I  left  the  little  figure  on  the  suit-case,  and,  shrinking 
from  the  sound  of  my  footsteps,  from  my  shadow  on  the 
stair,  I  dragged  myself  up  to  that  back  door.  The  burden 
of  dread  and  shame  that  was  on  me  made  the  weight  of 
the  child  and  the  suit-case  that  I  had  been  carrying  seem 
light. 

It  was  ten-year-old  Gusta  Flegel  who  answered  to  my 
knock. 

"Could  I  see  your  father  a  minute  ?"    I  spoke  very  low. 

The  child  didn't  answer  me  at  all.  She  just  turned  her 
head  over  her  shoulder  and  bawled : 

"Maw — here's  a  woman!" 

This  was  worse  than  I  had  expected.  Gusta  knew  me 
well  enough.  Mrs.  Flegel  came  across  the  kitchen,  wip- 
ing her  wet  hands  on  her  apron. 

"I  wanted  to  see  Mr.  Flegel,"  I  said. 


THE  DOOR  I  SHUT  BEHIND  ME  27 

"What  for?" 

I  couldn't  get  out  a  word.  Choking,  ready  to  cry,  I 
stood  pulling  down  the  cuffs  of  my  sweater. 

"Wellf" 

Mrs.  Flegel's  broad  form  blocked  the  door.  She  and 
Gusta  were  both  staring  at  me — at  my  dress,  my  hat,  my 
shoes.  I  was  thankful  that  Boyce  and  the  suit-case  were 
downstairs  out  of  their  sight.  Finally,  when  I  didn't  say 
anything,  the  woman  spoke  again: 

"Is  it  anything  I  can  tend  to  ?" 

"No,"  I  blurted.  "Mr.  Flegel — the  cream  money — I 
need — I've  got  to " 

"You  want  to  collect?"  She  came  a  step  nearer  and 
dropped  her  voice. 

"Yes.     I've  got  to  have  it  to-night." 

"What's  that  you've  got  to  have  to-night?"  It  was 
little  old  Flegel  who  spoke,  coming  from  the  sitting- 
room,  in  his  stocking-feet,  pipe  in  hand.  He  looked  at 
me  over  his  wife's  shoulder.  "Oh,  it's  Mrs.  Baird,"  he 
said.  "Won't  you  come  in?  Why  don't  you  ask  her  in, 
Eosa  ?" 

"Thank  you,  I  can't  stop,"  I  said.  "I  only  wanted  to 
get  the  cream  money.  Can  you  let  me  have  it  to-night  ?" 

For  a  minute  nobody  spoke.  Flegel  looked  a  little 
queer ;  Mrs.  Flegel  shut  her  mouth  tight ;  she  purpled,  and 
seemed  to  puff  up  as  she  stared  first  at  me,  then  at  her 
husband. 

"Sure!"  he  said.  "It's  eleven  dollars  and  sixty-five 
cents,  ain't  it  ?" 

Mrs.  Flegel  stuck  her  face  up  close  to  his. 

"You  going  to  give  it  to  her  ?"  she  demanded. 

"Sure  I  am.    Why  not  ?" 

"You  paid  Baird  yesterday.    I  seen  you." 

The  first  knowledge  I  had  of  what  I  was  doing  after 
that  was  Flegel  pushing  his  angry  wife  away  and  saying 
kindly  to  me:  "Now,  I  wouldn't  cry.  Don't  you  cry. 


28  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

I'll  let  you  have  what  you  need  against  next  month's 
cream." 

"Next  month's  cream !"  Would  Oliver  let  next  month's 
cream  go  for  a  debt  of  mine  ?  If  Mrs.  Flegel  hadn't  been 
there  muttering  insults  about  his  never  seeing  the  colour 
of  his  money  again,  I  should  have  told  the  kind  little  man 
exactly  how  matters  stood,  and  asked  him  plainly  to  lend 
me  the  money.  As  it  was,  I  couldn't  think  of  anything 
but  my  own  necessities. 

"I've  got  to  have  as  much  as  ten  dollars,"  I  burst  out, 
scarcely  knowing  what  I  said. 

"Well,  I  can  let  you  have  ten  dollars,"  said  Flegel. 
"Rosa,  be  still." 

Funny,  square  little  old  Flegel — when  I  was  a  child  at 
home  on  the  ranch,  and  we  were  comparatively  rich,  and 
he  was  just  starting  his  grocery  and  butcher  shop,  father 
used  to  sell  him  beef  on  credit.  I  remember  his  coming 
all  the  way  to  Stanleyton  for  a  calf  or  a  sheep  that  he 
could  get  and  pay  for  in  his  own  time.  I  was  inheriting 
the  goodwill  of  those  days  now. 

I  hoped  he  would  go  downstairs  to  the  cash  register  to 
get  my  ten  dollars,  and  still  give  me  a  chance  to  explain 
out  of  Mrs.  Flcgel's  hearing  that  I  was  leaving  Meaghers 
for  good  and  would  send  the  money  back  as  soon  as  I  got 
work  in  San  Vicente.  But  he  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket 
and  gave  me  a  gold  piece  from  his  worn  purse. 

I  took  it  without  a  word.  As  the  door  shut  and  I  started 
'downstairs,  I  could  hear  the  quarrel  still  going  on.  To- 
morrow, when  what  I  had  done  Avas  .known,  Mrs.  Flegel 
would  make  the  story  twice  as  bad.  She  would  say  that 
I  had  obtained  money  from  her  husband  under  false  pre- 
tences. I  knew  a  person  could  be  arrested  for  that.  At 
the  foot  of  the  stairs  I  had  half  a  mind  to  turn  back,  but 
loud  voices  still  sounded  above.  After  all,  I  had  to  have 
the  money,  and  they  would  know  in  due  time  why. 

Boyce  was  sound  asleep  in  a  soft  little  lump,  partly  on 


THE  DOOR  I  SHUT  BEHIND  ME  29 

and  partly  off  the  suit-case.  I  picked  him  up  and  brushed 
off  his  suit  carefully — it  was  the  only  nice  thing  he  had; 
I  had  made  it  myself  from  the  cloth  dress  that  was  in  my 
wedding  outfit. 

I  found  the  station  all  lit  up  and  empty.  The  clock 
showed  nearly  an  hour  till  train  time.  Boyce  slept 
soundly.  I  made  him  comfortable  with  my  cloak  over 
him  on  the  bench  in  the  women's  room,  got  out  the  paper 
and  stamped  envelope  1  had  provided  myself  with  for  this 
purpose,  and,  with  the  suit-case  for  a  desk,  wrote  to  Ben 
Frawley,  the  expressman,  to  go  up  to  the  ranch  and  get  my 
trunk  and  bring  it  to  the  station.  He  was  to  show  the  let- 
ter to  Oliver  as  an  order.  I  didn't  think  my  husband 
would  make  any  trouble  about  the  trunk.  I  enclosed  a 
silver  fifty-cent  piece  from  a  very  little  hoard  of  coins  I 
had,  and  posted  the  letter  in  the  station  box.  It  was  the 
best  arrangement  I  could  think  of.  Anyhow,  it  was  the 
only  one.  After  that  I  stayed  outside,  walking  up  and 
down  in  the  dark.  I  couldn't  be  still  a  minute.  My  own 
face  in  the  glass  there  in  the  waiting-room  had  looked 
strange  to  me,  excited  and  wild,  with  red  spots  like  paint 
on  my  cheeks  and  all  the  rest  pale,  the  eyes  big  and  black — 
they're  only  a  sort  of  hazel. 

I  stayed  outside  but  watched  all  the  time  for  the  ticket 
window  to  be  opened.  A  buckboard  drove  up  while  I  stood 
there.  At  the  sound  of  the  wheels  my  heart  first  stood 
still,  and  then  began  beating  till  it  seemed  I  would  choke. 
I  don't  know  what  I  feared;  my  instinct  was  to  get  into 
the  station  and  to  Boyce.  I  hesitated,  afraid  to  cross  the 
light;  then  ran  ahead  and  almost  bumped  into  a  man  get- 
ting down  and  having  two  dogs  and  some  suit-cases  handed 
after  him.  Well-dressed,  gloved — just  some  stranger — 
nothing  to  be  afraid  of. 

I  went  back  to  my  walking  up  and  down  while  the  boy 
carried  the  luggage  inside  and  stayed  with  it.  I  soon  for- 
got all  about  the  man,  and  it  was  not  till  a  good  while  later 


30  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

that  I  realised  he  was  walking  up  and  down  out  there,  too, 
smoking,  the  dogs  at  his  heels,  and  that  he  continually  met 
me,  "accidentally,"  in  the  full  light  of  the  door  or  win- 
dow. I  took  a  good  look  at  him  with  the  light  directly 
on  his  face  as  he  went  in  to  put  the  dogs  on  leash  and 
leave  them  with  the  boy.  I  recognised  him.  In  the  hills 
above  Junction  City  there  were  several  magnificent  moun- 
tain camps  and  bungalows  belonging  to  rich  people.  A 
year  ago  Alvah  Pendleton's  son  had  spent  his  honeymoon 
in  the  finest  of  these,  built  by  his  father.  The  pictures  of 
bride  and  groom  were  in  the  papers,  and  a  San  Francisco 
weekly  came  as  near  making  open  mention  of  various 
scandals  connected  with  Alvah  Pendleton,  Jr.,  the  groom, 
as  it  could  without  being  sued. 

I  recognised  the  odd  little  forward  duck  of  his  sleek, 
dark  head  as,  coming  back,  he  lifted  his  hat  and  said : 

"It's  a  fine  evening." 

"Yes,"  I  responded  nervously,  and  turned  in  at  the  door. 

He  came  in  after  me.  I  went  across  to  the  ticket  win- 
dow and  stood  there  with  my  back  to  him.  Then  all  at 
once  I  was  ashamed  of  the  way  I  was  acting.  Why 
shouldn't  any  man  say  to  me  that  it  was  a  pleasant  even- 
ing? When  he  spoke  again  I  was  ready  to  answer  him 
civilly.  What  he  said  this  time  was : 

"Your  ticket  man  at  Meaghers  doesn't  open  his  win- 
dow till  just  before  the  train  comes."  He  threw  his  cigar- 
ette away,  strolled  up  and  leaned  an  elbow  on  the  little 
shelf.  "Not  used  to  travelling  ?  You  get  over  being  ner- 
vous about  little  things  when  you  go  as  much  as  I  do. 
What's  this  ticket  of  yours  going  to  be  ?"  He  smiled,  and 
his  dark  eyes,  lazy,  yet  keen,  travelled  over  my  shabbiness 
and  came  back  to  my  face.  "A  local  or  a  through  ?" 

I  drew  back  a  little,  hesitating. 

"Why,  what  difference " 

He  laughed  out  now,  but  not  unpleasantly;  he  didn't 
seem  to  be  making  fun  of  me.  Yet  when  a  woman  has 


THE  DOOR  I  SHUT  BEHIND  ME  31 

been  for  years  continually  called  fool,  openly  or  by  im- 
plication, she  is  shy  of  being  laughed  at.  There  is  a  sore 
place  where  there  used  to  be  reasonable  acceptance  of 
good-natured  joking. 

"It  takes  a  short  time  to  make  out  a  local  ticket,  and  a 
long  time  to  make  out  a  through,"  he  explained. 

"San  Vicente,"  I  said.    "Is  that  local  or  through  ?" 

"Local.    That's  where  I'm  going.    I  live  there." 

"Well,"  I  looked  at  the  clock,  "he'll  only  have  two 
tickets  to  make  out." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Not  even  that.  I've  got  mine  already.  In  fact,"  he 
finished,  on  a  lower  tone,  after  a  little  hesitation,  "it  hap- 
pens that  I've  got  two  tickets  to  San  Vicente,"  and  left  it 
at  that. 

I  hardly  knew  what  to  say.  I  couldn't  accept  the  ticket 
outright;  but  if  he  would  let  me  buy  it  at  a  reduction,  it 
would  help  ever  so  much.  Even  without  a  Pullman  berth 
— that  I  did  want  for  Boyce's  sake — my  fare  would  be  six 
dollars.  When  I  didn't  speak,  he  pulled  out  his  watch  and 
glanced  at  it. 

"Anyhow,"  he  said,  "what's  the  use  of  hanging  around  ? 
This  old  ticket  window  isn't  going  to  be  open  for  ten  min- 
utes." He  smiled  straight  in  my  face.  "It's  awfully  close 
in  here.  You  look  warm  and  tired.  Come  on  outside." 

He  took  hold  of  my  arm  easily.  It  was  as  though  with 
the  words  and  gesture  he  crossed  over  on  to  an  acknowl- 
edged footing  of  friendliness.  There  seemed  nothing  to  do 
but  go  with  him.  Yet  at  the  door  I  held  back. 

"I  oughtn't  to  leave  the  window  now,"  I  said. 

He  laughed,  and  pulled  me  along. 

"Don't  I  tell  you  I've  got  two  tickets  to  San  Vicente  I 
If  I  make  you  lose  the  chance  to  get  yours,  what's  the  mat- 
ter with  your  using  this  extra  one  of  mine  ?" 

I  was  too  confused,  too  inexperienced,  to  clear  matters 
between  us.  I  knew  fairly  well  that  I  ought  to  tell  him  I 


32  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

recognised  him,  yet  if  I  did  that,  I  should  have  to  give  my 
own  name — and  I  was  afraid  to.  He  continued  to  hold 
my  arm  as  we  walked  up  and  down  the  long  platform, 
with  its  patches  of  light  just  in  front  of  the  station,  the 
abrupt  darkness  swallowing  up  everything  beyond  its 
edges.  He  dropped  the  matter  of  the  ticket  as  though  it 
were  settled.  As  we  threaded  our  way  among  baggage 
trucks  and  piled  boxes,  and  circled  around  the  stack  of 
milk  cans  at  the  farther  end,  I  tried  in  vain  to  find  some 
excuse  for  loosening  that  uncalled  for  hold  on  my  arm; 
and  I  could  no  more  ask  him,  in  so  many  words,  if  he 
would  sell  me  the  ticket,  and  what  the  price  would  be, 
than  if  I  had  been  dumb.  He  talked  right  along  in  his 
smooth,  careless  voice,  not  seeming  to  notice  anything  out 
of  the  way  about  me.  Finally  he  pulled  up  in  the  light 
of  the  door,  and  suggested  easily : 

"Suppose  we  introduce  ourselves ;   here's  my  card." 

"I  haven't  any  card,"  I  said,  twisting  the  bit  of  paste- 
board between  my  fingers,  without  looking  at  it. 

He  smiled  suddenly. 

"Of  course  you  haven't — nor  any  name,  either!  Oh, 
I've  got  you  spotted,  kiddo.  You're  running  away  from 
home." 

"What—"  I  gasped—     "What  makes  you  say  that  ?" 

He  chuckled  at  my  face  of  dismay. 

"Why,  it  sticks  out  all  over  you,  girlie!  You'll  just 
have  to  use  that  extra  ticket  of  mine.  If  you  go  to  buying 
one,  the  agent  will  spot  you  for  a  runaway,  just  as  I  did." 

I  couldn't  speak. 

"And  when  papa  and  mamma  get  on  your  track  to- 
morrow, the  first  thing  they'll  want  to  know  is  where  you 
bought  a  railroad  ticket  for." 

Oh,  the  gulf  between  me  and  that  foolish,  headstrong 
girl  for  whom  he  took  me ! 

"He  knows  where  I've  gone,"  I  gulped.  "I  told  him 
in  the  note — to  San  Vicente — to  get  a  divorce." 


THE  DOOR  I  SHUT  BEHIND  ME  33 

"Sa-a-aay !"  he  whistled  softly,  and  took  a  new  look  at 
me.  "We-e-ell — who'd  have  thought  it  ? — a  baby  doll  like 
you!" 

Without  a  word  I  began  to  edge  away  toward  the  sta- 
tion door.  A  long  step  brought  him  in  front  of  me.  There 
was  a  new  look  in  his  eye.  He  was  flushed,  voluble,  like 
a  man  who  had  taken  a  drink. 

"See  here,"  his  voice  was  unsteady,  "if  there's  an  in- 
jured husband  on  your  trail,  it's  the  extra  ticket  for  yours. 
Come  now — you'll  have  to !" 

The  whistle  of  the  coming  train  cut  short  his  speech; 
next  moment  its  thunders  shook  the  little  station.  I 
pushed  past  him  and  looked  in.  The  ticket  window  was 
open — it  must  have  been  open  for  some  time.  Young 
Pendleton  held  me  back  with  one  hand.  He  called  to  the 
boy  to  bring  the  dogs  and  luggage.  Then  to  me  he 
whispered : 

"Honey,  I  hate  to  leave  you,  but  I've  got  to  run  down 
to  the  baggage  car  and  see  that  these  pups  get  on.  Get 
your  things  and  follow  my  grips.  It's  all  right — it's  all 
right.  Section  8,  first  Pullman.  Run  along — quick.  Be 
a  good  girl." 

This  is  a  free  country.  Any  citizen  can  accept  or  reject 
the  proposition  of  any  other  citizen.  What  is  it  then  which 
terrifies  a  woman  so  in  a  situation  like  this  ?  I  tore  from 
his  grasp  as  though  it  had  power  to  harm  me ;  I  ran  from 
him,  dashed  through  the  waiting-room,  and  gathered  up 
my  baby.  As  I  flew,  money  in  hand,  to  get  my  ticket,  he 
met  me  at  the  inner  door. 

"What's  the  matter — ?"  he  was  beginning,  when  he 
caught  sight  of  Boyce!  His  astonishment  and  dismay 
were  almost  comical.  He  stood  there  between  me  and  the 
window.  "A — a  child!"  he  stuttered.  "Is — that — 
your «" 

"Get  out  of  my  way!"  I  cried,  desperately.  "Let  me 
buy  my  ticket." 


34  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

The  boy  with  the  dogs  and  luggage  hung  at  the  outer 
door  and  stared.  My  persecutor  backed  off. 

"Take  those  pups  down  to  the  baggage  car,  you  fool," 
he  shouted  and  rushed  away. 

The  throb  and  jar  of  that  waiting  train  excited  me  un- 
reasonably. No  time  to  buy  a  ticket  now.  I  would  have 
to  pay  on  the  train.  I  was  beside  myself.  I  turned  and 
ran  to  get  the  suit-case,  and  heard  them  call,  "All  aboard !" 
while  I  was  lifting  it.  When  I  got  out  to  the  platform 
Pendleton  was  standing  on  the  car  step,  the  wheels 
already  beginning  to  grind.  I  saw  his  ungloved  right 
hand  passing  a  coin  down  to  the  boy  who  had  carried  his 
grips.  The  wheels  moved  faster.  Alone,  I  might  have 
climbed  on ;  but  with  Boyce  and  the  suit-case  I  was  afraid 
to  attempt  it.  I  stood  there  and  saw  the  train  leave  me. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE    FLIGHT 

STUMBLED  back  into  the  station.  This  man— noth- 
ing to  me  nor  I  to  him — had  come  in  my  way  with 
his  foolish  overtures — and  lost  me  my  train!  Yet  at  the 
moment  there  wasn't  room  in  me  for  anger  against  him; 
all  other  feelings  were  swallowed  up  in  the  tragedy  of  that 
missed  train. 

Boyce  slept  like  a  log.  I  went  and  beat  on  the  closed 
ticket  window.  I  could  hear  the  telegraph  instrument 
clicking  away  in  there,  but  I  was  afraid  that  with  the 
going  of  the  train  everybody  had  left  the  station.  After 
a  long  time  the  board  shutter  was  jerked  up;  there  was 
the  agent,  his  hat  on  a  corner  of  his  head,  one  arm  in  a 
sleeve  of  the  coat  he  was  hunching  into.  He  looked  at  me 
very  crossly. 

"Missed  your  train  ?  There  won't  be  another  till  five 
o'clock  to-morrow  morning." 

He  was  going  to  slam  down  the  shutter,  but  I  put  my 
hand  in  at  the  risk  of  having  my  fingers  pinched. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  Pbegged.  "Isn't  there  a  train  that 
comes  through  here  at  twelve? — a  train  that  goes  to  San 
Vicente,  California?" 

"Yes,  there  is — the  Shasta  Limited  to  San  Francisco — 
through  express.  It  doesn't  stop." 

Again  he  was  going  to  pull  the  window  down.  Again  I 
stopped  him  desperately. 

"Couldn't  it  be  flagged?" 

"No,  it  couldn't.  Is  that  all  ?  It's  after  my  hours,  now. 
Five  o'clock  to-morrow  morning's  the  best  you  can  do — 
unless  you  want  to  try  walking  to  the  Junction.  Take 
your  hand  away." 

35 


36  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

With  that,  he  slammed  the  window  down,  indeed. 

For  a  minute  I  stood,  holding  to  the  shelf,  staring  at  the 
white  painted  boards  of  the  shutter.  I  heard  his  heavy, 
clumping  step  cross  the  floor,  and  the  outer  door  shut,  leav- 
ing me  alone  in  the  station.  I  was  like  a  person  who  has 
had  a  blow  on  the  head.  No  useful  thought  or  suggestion 
came  to  me.  I  just  went  and  sat  down  by  the  suit-case  and 
the  sleeping  baby.  There  I  sat,  in  a  sort  of  stupor;  and 
when  I  tried  to  think  of  any  plan,  there  only  thumped  over 
and  over  in  my  mind  the  thought  that  it  was  all  my  fault — 
"If  I  hadn't  spoken  to  that  man — if  I  hadn't  let  him  speak 
to  me !  All  my  fault — all  my  fault !" 

There  was  a  big  clock,  and  it  ticked  very  loud.  I  real- 
ized that  the  wind  had  freshened,  and  was  coming  through 
the  open  door.  I  covered  Boyce  mechanically.  After  all 
that  I  had  done  and  tried  in  these  last  months,  after  that 
final  struggle,  there  seemed  nothing  to  do  but  sit  and  wait. 
And  that's  what  I  did,  for  more  than  an  hour. 

What  finally  roused  me  like  a  slap  in  the  face  was  the 
sight  of  Flegel's  gold-piece  still  clutched  in  my  hand.  The 
Flegels — five  o'clock  was  the  milk  train — they  would  be 
down  to  it.  Oliver  would  have  had  my  note  before  that; 
he  might  be  there,  too.  I  couldn't  bear  it.  I  got  up  and 
lifted  the  suit-case.  Six  miles  to  the  Junction.  Out  of 
the  question  to  walk  that  far.  I  looked  at  the  clock;  the 
hands  were  close  together  at  the  top — almost  time  for  the 
Limited. 

I  became  suddenly  aware  of  a  queer  trembling  through 
me — yet  I  felt  strong  with  it,  not  weak.  My  own  efforts 
had  failed;  now  something  from  outside  seemed  to  take 
hold  of  me,  and  move  me  about — quick,  skillful,  unhesi- 
tating. The  Shasta  Limited,  away  down  below  the  cut, 
whistled  for  Meaghers.  I  caught  up  Boyce,  took  him  out 
and  laid  him,  sleeping  as  he  was,  on  a  baggage  truck  close 
beside  the  track,  flew  back  for  my  suit-case,  set  it  by  him, 
jerking  down  a  poster  from  the  wall  as  I  passed,  ran  a 


THE  FLIGHT  37 

little  way  along  the  track  to  where  the  first  tall  electric 
light  would  give  the  engineer  a  good  view  of  my  figure, 
and  stood  there.  When  the  train  came  out  of  the  <mt  at 
the  foot  of  the  valley  I  began  to  wave  my  poster  across  the 
tracks.  It  was  half  a  mile  away  then,  coming  like  a 
cannon-ball,  but  I  waved  frantically,  till  they  saw  me, 
and  I  could  see  and  hear  the  speed  slackening.  Then  I 
threw  down  the  cardboard  sheet,  turned  and  ran  the  few 
rods  back  to  the  station,  and  was  waiting  there  with  my 
baby  and  my  baggage  when  the  great  train  came  to  a 
grinding  halt  at  the  platform  and  two  or  three  men  jumped 
down  demanding  to  know  what  was  the  matter. 

In  the  confusion,  I  scrambled  on,  and  was  in  the  vesti- 
bule of  one  of  the  Pullmans — the  train  carried  no  other 
kind  of  cars — while  they  swore  and  hammered  on  the 
station  door,  and  tried  to  find  who  had  flagged  them,  and 
why. 

For  a  minute  they  ran  around  like  men  fighting  a  fire ; 
then  I  heard  the  shout,  "All  aboard!"  and  the  conductor 
came  jumping  into  the  vestibule  where  I  was,  grabbed  the 
bell  rope  and  pulled  it.  The  wheels  were  moving  before 
he  saw  me — that  saved  me  from  being  put  off  the  train. 

"Good  Lord !"  he  snapped,  stopping  there  with  his  arm 
raised,  staring  down  at  me.  "Was  it  you  children  that 
flagged  my  train  ?  You  ought  to  be  whipped !" 

I  stood  up  meekly,  and  he  saw  the  length  of  my  skirts. 

"A  woman  grown,"  he  said  astonished,  "and  don't 
know  any  better  than  that  ?" 

"I'm  sorry,"  I  answered.    "I  just  had  to  get  this  train." 

"Had  to  get  this  train !"  he  spluttered.  "Well,  madam, 
do  you  know  that  you  have  trifled  with  the  lives  of  hun- 
dreds of  people  ?  We  don't  dare  lose  or  gain  a  minute, 
madam.  The  next  time  you  run  out  and  wave  a  petticoat 
at  a  train  because  you  want  to  ride  on  it,  I  wish  you'd 
choose  the  local." 

The  brakeman  came  up  behind  and  stood  listening  with 


38  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

a  boy's  grin.  He  was  a  young  fellow  with  reckless,  light 
blue  eyes  under  his  visored  cap,  and  not  enough  chin  to 
warrant  them.  From  behind  the  conductor's  shoulder  he 
gave  me  a  wink  of  encouragement.  I  let  the  angry  man 
scold  me  like  a  father — or  a  Dutch  Uncle.  When  he  was 
through,  he  seemed  relieved,  for^he  turned  all  at  once  to  the 
brakeman  and  asked  if  there  was  any  more  comfortable 
place  than  the  vestibule  for  me  to  sit,  adding : 

"We  can't  afford  to  stop  again.  She's  on  here  and  going 
to  stay.  You  may  as  well  look  after  her,  Tipton.  She'll 
have  to  have  some  place  to  lay  this  kid,  anyhow." 

"Sure,"  and  the  boy  ducked  into  the  Pullman. 

"I  haven't  the  money  for  a  berth,"  I  said  hastily ;  "only 
a  little  more  than  enough  for  my  fare  to  San  Vicente." 

Good  old  conductor,  whose  name  I  never  knew — his  bark 
was  so  much  worse  than  his  bite ! 

"I  can't  accept  a  money  fare  to  San  Vicente,"  he  grum- 
bled. "This  is  a  through  train — got  nothing  but  through 
tickets.  How'd  a  local  money  fare  look  in  my  accounts  ?" 

Something  almost  like  a  smile  passed  between  us. 

"I'd  be  perfectly  willing  to  pay,"  I  said.  "I  know  it 
was  outrageous  of  me  to  stop  your  train.  But  I  just  had 
to — I'm  going  down  to  San  Vicente  to  get  work." 

He  gave  me  a  long  look ;  I  guess  he  "spotted"  me,  too, 
as  the  man  at  the  station  put  it.  Then  his  eye  finally  set- 
tled on  Boyce. 

"Fine  boy  you've  got  there.  Going  to  get  work,  hey? 
Well,  if  you  show  the  nerve  holding  up  San  Vicente  you 
did  in  holding  up  my  train,  you'll  make  it." 

He  went  on.  I  offer  my  thanks  to  him  here.  I  hadn't 
the  wit  to  do  it  then,  nor  would  he  have  wanted  me  to. 

The  brakeman  came  strolling  back  with  that  light- 
hearted  air  of  his,  followed  by  a  tall,  broad-framed  very 
black  man,  who  looked  as  though  he  had  just  been  waked 
up,  and  said  airily. 

"Bice'll  let  the  kid  sleep  on  the  seat  where  he  is." 


THE  FLIGHT  39 

The  negro  bowed  to  me  gravely,  his  eyes  fastening 
themselves  on  Boy,  who  was  awake  now  and  standing  be- 
side me.  He  bent  to  pick  the  child  up,  and  I  got  a  blast 
of  whiskey  breath  that  showed  me  why  the  man's  eyeballs 
were  so  reddened.  I  thought  Boy  would  be  afraid  of  him, 
but  he  put  up  his  arms  instantly  and  cuddled  down  on  the 
broad  hollow  shoulder.  We  all  started  back  into  the  Pull- 
man, the  young  brakeman  whispering  to  me  as  we  went. 

"Bice  just  got  fired — on  the  wing,  as  it  were — for  drink- 
ing." 

"Oh,"  I  said,  looking  at  the  big,  kind  creature  carrying 
Boy,  "what  a  pity !" 

"Yep,"  assented  the  brakeman.  "He  was  a  star  porter, 
but  the  railroad  don't  stand  for  John  Barleycorn.  He  and 
the  brakeman  smuggled  in  a  bottle,  and  they  fired  'em  both 
— picked  me  up  at  Silver  Hill  to  make  the  run  back,  and 
grabbed  a  coon  there  to  take  Bice's  place.  They'll  carry 
him  on  to  San  Francisco  and  turn  him  loose." 

The  black  man  put  my  son  down  on  his  own  folded  over- 
coat. He  handled  the  child  deftly ;  the  liquor  seemed  only 
to  make  him  more  dignified,  as  it  does  some  people. 

"Will  the  lady  wish  this  seat  ?"  he  asked  when  Boy,  com- 
fortably placed,  lapsed  again  into  slumber. 

His  speech  startled  me.  It  was  a  big  voice  brought  down 
to  a  beautiful  whisper  (we  were  in  the  end  of  a  Pullman 
full  of  sleeping  passengers),  and  the  negro's  pronunciation 
was  that  of  an  English  gentleman.  He  was  offering  me 
the  only  place  he  himself  had  to  sit. 

"Oh,  no,  thank  you,"  I  said.  "I'll  take  the  camp-stool 
out  in  the  vestibule  if  it  won't  be  too  much  trouble  for  you 
to  look  after  my  little  boy  here." 

"No  trouble,  madam,"  he  said,  then  dropped  into  the 
seat  like  a  thing  whose  mechanism  has  run  down,  his  head 
went  back,  and  he  began  to  snore  almost  instantly. 

I  was  loosening  Boyce's  shoes  when  the  child  suddenly 
opened  his  eyes  wide. 


40  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

"We  on  train !"  he  exclaimed  as  though  just  realising  it. 
"Where's  Boy's  candy  ?" 

"Oh,  Boy —  ''  I  began,  but  the  brakeman  took  the  words 
out  of  my  mouth. 

"Sure,"  he  said,  "you're  dead  right,  young  man — this  is 
a  train,  and  your  candy's  in  the  next  car.  I'll  get  it  for 
you." 

"Now?" 

Boy's  eyes  were  closing  as  he  spoke;  he  was  asleep 
when  I  tucked  his  shoes  in  beside  him. 

I  shook  my  hand  to  the  brakeman,  breathing  softly: 

"No  need  to  get  any  candy.  See.  I'll  buy  some  to- 
morrow." 

"Yes,  you  won't,"  was  the  whispered  answer.  "I'll 
get  the  kid's  candy.  I  don't  want  anything  of  his  size 
bawling  me  out  for  not  keeping  my  promises.  Gee,  he's 
a  good  looker !  Got  eyes  like  his  mamma." 

He  carried  the  stool  out  for  me.  After  I  was  seated  on 
it  in  a  corner  of  the  vestibule,  he  stood  looking  at  me  a 
minute,  then  reached  over  and  tried  the  big  brass  lever 
that  lets  down  the  floor  to  open  the  vestibule.  I  watched 
him  dully. 

"Sometimes  they  throw  themselves  in  front  of  engines," 
he  explained;  "sometimes  they  throw  themselves  off  of  the 
trains ;  but  either  way,  I'm  ag'in  it." 

I  smiled  a  little,  and  he  went  on,  seeming  rather  relieved 
in  his  mind.  He  was  gone  some  time,  and  when  he  came 
back  brought  the  candy,  and  put  it  in  my  lap,  suggesting : 

"Have  some  yourself." 

"Thank  you,"  I  said,  "I  couldn't  eat— but  I'm  awfully 
thirsty." 

He  nodded. 

"Sort  of  like  me.  If  I  had  as  good  an  appetite  as  I  have 
a  thirst,  I'd  be  bigger  than  Bice.  Ain't  he  a  whale  ?  West 
Indian  darkey  from  San  Domingo ;  been  butler  in  me  lud's 
family  down  in  those  parts,  and  steward  on  a  big  mail 


THE  FLIGHT  41 

steamer;   but  he  couldn't  get  it  through  his  nut  that  when 
the  railroad  said  'Nix  on  the  alcohol'  it  meant  nix." 

"Is  it  all  right  to  leave  the  child  with  him  ?"  I  asked  a 
trifle  anxiously. 

"Sure  it's  all  right.  The  poor  old  ginny's  as  gentle  as  a 
kitten.  Drink  only  makes  him  more  polite.  When  I  came 
through  there  just  now  the  kid  had  waked  up  and  asked 
for  something.  Bice  was  waiting  on  him  like  he  was  the 
heir  apparent  to  the  throne.  I  tell  you  the  tourists  used  to 
feel  as  though  it  was  a  privilege  to  be  allowed  to  slip  him 
a  five-dollar  tip." 

"I — I  know  so  little  of  such  things,"  I  stammered. 
"How  much  ought  I  to  give  him  for  letting  Boy  sleep  on 
the  seat  there  ?" 

"Nothing.  He's  down  and  out  himself,  you  see — he's 
not  the  porter.  It  makes  him  feel  kind  of  good  to  get  a 
chance  to  do  something  for  somebody.  Don't  you  offer 
him  money.  He's  not  like  the  common  run  of  darkies." 

"He  did  look  very  different  to  me,"  I  said ;  "so  big,  and 
so  very  black ;  yet  his  features  are  almost  sharp." 

"He's  a  Kaffir,"  nodding.  "I  was  born  on  a  Virginia 
plantation.  Down  there  I  used  to  hear  them  talk  about 
Kaffirs.  Always  said  they  couldn't  use  one  in  the  fields 
— except  for  a  boss.  They  won't  mind  anybody  but  a 
white  man,  you  see — or  a  white  lady — but  they  made  fine 
butlers  and  stewards.  Get  one  of  'em  roused  and  he's  got 
all  sorts  of  fool  courage — you  could  whip  him  to  death 
before  he'd  give  up.  I'll  bring  you  that  drink  now — I 
guess  it's  time." 

He  fetched  the  water,  and  watched  me  drink.  As  T 
handed  back  the  empty  glass  with  thanks,  he  remarked : 

"I  ain't  asking  what  your  sorrow  was,  but  I  am  inquir- 
ing if  broken  doses  of  conversation  might  relieve  it.  Yes  2 
Introductions  are  in  order.  My  name's  Joe  Tipton,  of 
San  Vicente,  California.  Pleased  to  make  your  acquaint- 
ance. Mrs. — er — er — ump — ump  ?" 


42  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

He  paused  with  raised  eyebrows.  I  laughed  and  filled 
in,  "Mrs.  C.  A.  Baird." 

"And  the  C.  A.  stands  for  California,  America." 

"You  pretty  nearly  guessed  it."  The  boy's  dare-devil 
air  would  have  disarmed  anyone.  "My  father  named  me 
California  for  the  state  he  was  born  in,  and  rny  mother 
added  Ann  to  it.  Most  people  call  me  Callie." 

"Nup,"  young  Tipton  shook  his  head.  "I  never  should. 
I've  got  a  name  for  you.  California's  too  long  a  handle." 

He  didn't  say  what  his  name  for  me  was,  and  I  didn't 
ask.  He  kept  coming  back  every  once  in  a  while,  and  on 
one  of  these  visits  I  questioned  him  concerning  San  Vi- 
cente. 

"It's  a  pretty  good  old  burg,"  he  said.  "About  forty 
thousand — give  the  Chamber  of  Commerce  a  couple  of 
drinks  and  they'll  claim  eighty,  but  forty's  nearer  the 
figure.  Got  many  friends  there?" 

"No,"  I  said,  hastily.  "I  only  know  two  people  in  San 
Vicente — a  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Watkins." 

"Well — they'll  meet  you  at  the  station,  will  they  ?  San 
Vicente  ain't  London,  but  it's  a  kind  of  a  wicked  big  town 
for  one  little  lone  bunch  of  calico." 

"Oh,  no,"  I  said,  "they  don't  know  anything  about  my 
coming.  I  haven't  seen  either  of  them  for  nearly  seven 
years.  I  knew  them  back  in  Stanleyton." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  then  ?"  Joe  asked.  "Not 
that  I  want  to  pry ;  but  I'm  just  determined  to  find  out." 

"Why,  I  must  get  an  inexpensive  boarding-house  and 
then  look  for  work." 

He  stood  silent,  shaking  his  head. 

"Oh,  say,"  he  began,  hesitantly,  "it  would  be  too  bad 
for  you  to  have  to  go  to  a  beanery." 

"I'm  used  to  economizing,"  was  all  I  said  to  that. 

"But,  you  see,  a  dame  with  your  looks — all  alone — at  a 
place  like  that ;  take  it  from  me " 

The  engine  whistle  broke  in  on  his  speech  with  some 


THE  FLIGHT  48 

signal  which  sent  him  hurrying  away.  When  he  was  gone 
the  memory  of  those  silly,  slangy  words,  "A  dame  with 
your  looks,"  kept  me  a  kind  of  pleasant  company.  One 
would  have  said  they  were  as  free  and  impertinent  as 
Pendleton's  "a  baby  doll,"  yet  Pendleton's  speech  had  re- 
pelled and  scared  me,  and  I  got  no  feeling  of  offence  from 
what  this  boy  said  and  did.  He  praised  my  looks.  How 
long,  how  long  since  I  had  given  thought  to  them!  Cer- 
tainly not  since  mother  died.  I  spread  my  hands  out  on 
my  threadbare  skirt.  They  were  still  soft  and  little  and 
white — the  palms  not  much  calloused.  Through  all  the 
slavery  of  the  ranch  I  had  kept  up  the  care  of  them  that 
mother  always  made  so  much  of,  washing  them  in  butter- 
milk, protecting  them  from  the  rough  work  with  old  gloves 
— though  there  was  nobody  now  to  notice  and  approve,  as 
she  used  to  do.  Nights  when  she  was  so  worn  out  that  she 
would  fairly  go  to  sleep  on  her  tired  feet  she  would  stand 
and  brush  my  curls.  She  wanted  me,  even  after  I  was 
married,  to  let  them  hang,  because  it  was  good  for  the  hair 
she  said,  but  I  knew  it  was  because  she  was  so  proud  of 
them. 

Poor  little  mother,  sleeping  so  quietly  on  the  Oregon 
hill  there  beside  father,  while  her  girl,  with  the  curls  all 
tucked  in  under  a  cheap  hat  of  two  summers  back  faced 
the  world  with  just  those  two  small,  bare  hands  between 
herself  and  starvation ! 

We  roared  on  through  the  night.  That  song  of  the 
wheels,  "Going  away !"  "Going  away !"  that  always  comes 
to  the  unaccustomed  traveller,  was  loud  in  my  ears.  I  had 
done  it  at  last.  I  was  off.  How  many  years  of  slow 
misery,  what  hours  of  frenzied  revolt  had  gone  to  the  mak- 
ing of  this  moment!  The  speed  of  the  train  hurling 
through  the  dark  stimulated  me.  I  shouldn't  be  any  fur- 
ther from  Meaghers  because  I  was  going  so  fast,  yet  some- 
how it  seemed  as  though  I  should. 

Mcaghers- — I  thought  of  the  Flegels.     I  went  over  in 


44  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

my  mind  the  scene  at  their  house ;  my  trouble  afterward 
with  young  Pendleton  at  the  station  made  it  clearer  to  me. 
That  article  in  the  weekly  had  given  me  hint  enough  about 
Alvah  Pendleton's  son — if  it  were  needed,  and  I  could  see 
how  his  manner  had  instantly  changed  when  he  found  that 
I  was  one  of  the  women  who  can't  come  under  the  ordinary 
rules ;  not  a  wife  with  a  husband  to  speak  up  for  her,  nor 
a  girl  to  be  approached  with  some  little  indirection.  I 
must  realise  now  that  my  position  was  anomalous;  some 
people  wouldn't  want  to  be  mixed  up  with  me,  others 
would  think  they  could  take  liberties.  Well,  I  hadn't 
expected  it  would  be  easy. 

A  dreary^rospect  ?  My  heart  rose  to  it,  shook  its  wings 
like  a  poor  cage-bird  that  has  made  escape,  and  yet  has 
no  reason — save  the  bare  one  of  the  existence  of  those 
wings — to  believe  that  it  can  fly.  I  looked  with  a  sort 
of  tragic  amusement  toward  the  great  brass  lever  that  Joe 
Tipton  had  examined  so  uneasily.  They  threw  themselves 
tinder  the  engines  and  off  the  trains,  did  they?  Not  the 
mother  animal  with  its  young  to  live  for ! 

The  brakeman  came  loitering  back  and  studied  me 
briefly  with  his  casual,  sidelong  glance,  before  he  inquired. 

"Well,  how's  every  little  thing '?" 

"Fine,"  I  answered  him,  and  really  meant  it.  "It's 
good  that  I  get  into  San  Vicente  in  the  early  morning. 
I'll  have  all  day  to  look  for  a  place." 

"Say."  He  hesitated,  then  cocked  his  cap  to  one  side 
and  went  on,  "I  believe  I've  got  hold  of  the  dandy  scheme 
for  you.  I  want  to  send  you  to  mother." 

I  had  a  vision  of  the  widowed  Virginia  lady  in  her  tiny 
cot. 

"Will  she  have  room  for  me  ?" 

"Plenty.  My  two  weeks'  vacation  starts  when  I  leave 
this  train  at  Frisco."  He  fished  out  a  card.  "You  can 
take  that  to  mother,  and  she'll  let  you  use  my  room  while 
I'm  away." 


THE  FLIGHT  45 

On  the  card  he  put  in  my  hand  was  printed,  "The 
Poinsettia,  Arbolado  Street  at  Fortieth,  San  Vicente,  Cali- 
fornia. Mrs.  Col.  Joseph  Edwards  Tipton,  late  of  Green- 
briar  Springs,  Va.,  proprietress." 

"It's  a  classy  place,"  he  assured  me.  "The  handsomest 
house  on  Arbolado  street — dago  artist  built  it  to  look  like 
his  ancestral  castle  at  Bingen  on  the  Rhine — and  went 
broke  on  it.  Mother  gets  it  cheap,  and  she's  got  a  bunch  of 
swell  dames  for  boarders.  It's  the  very  hang-out  for  you." 

"Oh,  but  I  couldn't  afford  such  a  place !" 

"Forget  it,"  he  waved  a  hand.  "There's  no  money  in 
the  deal.  You're  walking  right  back  to  the  old  homestead 
this  time  with  your  che-ild  in  your  arms,  and  the  paper 
snow  coming  down,  to  soft  music.  I  won't  be  in  San  Vi- 
cente for  two  weeks.  That'll  give  you  time  to  size  up  the 
situation  and  see  what  you  can  do." 

"You're  very  kind,"  I  said. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know."  He  took  the  card  from  my  hand 
again,  and  began  scribbling  on  it.  "My  room's  a  fright. 
I'm  telling  mother  to  sort  of  hoe  it  out  and  let  you  into  it." 

"What  will  she  think?" 

"It  doesn't  pay  to  think,  where  I'm  concerned — Mother 
knows  that.  I've  brought  her  up  right.  Say — I  wish  I 
could  be  there  to  see  when  you  drop  in  on  the  bunch  at  the 
Poinsettia!  Those  dear  old  girls  certainly  are  one  grove 
of  nuts.  I  have  some  right  good  fun  with  'em.  I  sure 
would  admire  to  be  among  those  present  when  they  get  the 
first  view  of  you — and  the  kid !" 

"Why — ?"  I  began,  but  he  broke  in  on  me  rather 
hastily : 

"When  you  get  to  San  Vicente  you  take  the  Arbolado 
street-car  on  the  corner  northeast  of  the  station,  unless 
you  have  the  luck  to  catch  a  jitney.  Give  your  check  to 
the  baggage  man.  He'll  look  after  your  trunk." 

"My — my  trunk  isn't  here,"  I  said  in  some  embarrass- 
ment. "It's  to  come  later." 


46  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

"Who's  attending  to  it  ?" 

"The  driver  at  Meaghers.  He'll  send  it  on  as  soon  as 
I  give  him  an  address." 

"I  could  save  you  the  express  on  it,"  said  the  brakeman. 
"The  man  that's  taking  my  regular  run  could  bring  it  down 
to  San  Vicente  without  it  costing  you  anything." 

"I  oughtn't  to  let  you  do  that,  but " 

"You  should  worry !  It's  not  a  cent  out  of  my  pocket." 
I  did  love  the  neat  way  he  freed  me  from  all  gratitude. 
"I  always  enjoy  making  other  folks  work." 

"Well — then — all  right,"  I  said,  and  began  to  add  some 
halting  words  of  thanks.  But  he  seemed  not  to  hear  them, 
and  only  said,  before  he  strolled  away,  and  with  that  boy's 
grin  of  his : 

"  'Well,  that  chore's  chored,'  as  the  Yankee  woman  said 
when  she  poisoned  her  husband.  See  you  later." 

So  it  came  about  that  I  climbed  down  from  the  Shasta 
Limited  at  San  Vicente  in  the  blue  coolness  of  dawn.  I 
was  wearly  from  my  sleepless  night  in  the  vestibule,  yet 
less  frightened  and  shaken  than  I  had  expected  to  be. 
There  were  some  other  passengers  getting  off,  a  family 
group,  with  the  regular  porter  of  the  car  looking  after 
them.  Joe  Tipton  had  warned  me  that  he  would  be  busy 
elsewhere,  but  the  big  black  man,  Bice,  attended  on  me  as 
though  I  had  been  a  queen.  He  wouldn't  let  me  touch  a 
thing  to  carry  it.  He  had  washed  and  combed  Boyce  in 
the  Pullman  dressing-room,  and  he  brought  the  child  out 
riding  on  his  arm  with  a  stately  air  that  made  it  look  like 
a  ceremonial.  I  remembered  Joe's  caution  about  not  offer- 
ing him  money. 

"Thank  you — thank  you  ever  so  much,"  I  said.  "You 
have  been  awfully  good  to  my  little  boy  and  me." 

"I  was  glad  to  do  it  for  you,  madam,"  his  deep,  cour- 
teous voice  answered.  "The  little  gentleman  is  mighty 
sweet.  I  hope  I  may  be  able  to  serve  you  and  him  again — 
some  other  time." 


THE  FLIGHT  47 

He  had  carried  my  suit-case  to  the  station  door.  The 
train  began  to  move  as  he  was  setting  it  down.  He  re- 
gained the  platform  with  a  very  few  long  strides,  and  the 
last  view  Boyce  and  I  had  of  him,  was  standing  big  and 
black  and  forlorn  on  the  rear  platform  looking  back  to  us. 


CHAPTEK  III 

THE  DOOR  THAT  OPENED  TO  ME 

DAWN  in  the  streets  of  San  Vicente.  The  roar  of  the 
train  was  still  in  my  head,  its  jar  and  movement 
through  all  my  flesh.  Here  it  was  still,  cool,  empty,  under 
the  growing  light.  Boy  pulled  at  my  hand. 

"Muwer — are  we — there  ?" 

I  tried  to  answer  him,  but  tears  stung  under  my  eye- 
lids ;  my  throat  swelled.  We  were  "there."  The  journey 
was  made — that  train  had  gone  on.  I  was  free.  Freedom 
— a  splendour  but  a  terror.  Freedom  to  do  what?  To 
starve,  maybe.  No,  no — I  wouldn't  fail — with  Boyce,  I 
daren't.  Here  was  a  whole  town  full  of  people — I'd  find 
friends — a  new  start — a  new  chance. 

"What  you  crying  for  ?  Where  hurts  ?"  Boy  swung 
round  in  front  of  me,  clutching  my  skirts,  staring  up  into 
my  face,  scared. 

"Nothing — I'm  just  so  happy,"  I  said,  half  scared  my- 
self to  find  tears  on  my  cheeks.  I  wiped  them  away,  and 
smiled.  Boy  was  quick  enough  to  believe  me  and  forget 
them  in  the  great  adventure. 

I  didn't  see  any  car  with  ARBOLADO  on  it ;  no  jitney 
passed,  though  we  stood  a  long  time  at  the  corner  Joe  Tip- 
ton  had  described.  I  began  to  realise  that  I  was  very 
hungry.  I  had  been  too  excited  to  touch  food  at  supper 
last  night — across  from  Oliver,  where  I  should  never  sit 
again!  For  days  before  that  I  had  scarcely  eaten  any- 
thing. Now  that  I  stood  free,  new-born  in  a  world  of  my 
own,  I  was  one  great  hunger. 

"Jackie-Boy,"  I  said,  "would  you  like  to  walk  up  to  the 
new  place  ?"  and  we  started  along  the  silent  street.  At 
first  everything  was  closed,  except  some  drug-store  or  all- 
night  saloon ;  then  as  we  walked  block  after  block,  five,  six, 

48 


THE  DOOR  THAT  OPENED  TO  ME          49 

eight,  ten  of  them,  there  began  to  be  bungalows,  with  milk 
bottles  on  their  steps  a  woman  sweeping  the  walk,  a  man 
using  the  garden  hose,  a  child  running  on  an  early  morn- 
ing errand. 

"It's  pretty  far,"  Boy  said.     "Is  breakfast  there?" 

"Yes,  son,"  I  laughed  a  little;  "it  has  to  be  there." 
And  after  that  he  timed  his  short  steps  to  the  phrase. 

We  were  both  tired  enough  before  we  reached  the  big 
house  which  I  recognised  half  a  block  away  from  Joe  Tip- 
ton's  description.  It  certainly  looked  queer  at  the  corner 
of  a  city  street,  with  its  shingled  towers,  battlements,  red 
sandstone  bastions,  and  a  cloistered  arcade.  It  seemed 
there  should  have  been  a  drawbridge  and  moat,  instead  of 
the  usual  stone  steps  and  a  front  doorbell. 

A  neat  girl  in  a  blue  cotton  maid's  dress  answered  my 
ring,  and  looked  a  little  doubtful  when  I  asked  for  Mrs. 
Tipton. 

"If  she,  isn't  up  yet — "  I  hesitated,  realising  that  I  was 
in  town  where  people  wouldn't  be  keeping  ranch  hours. 

"She's  up,"  the  maid  vouchsafed.  "She's  in  the 
kitchen,"  and  I  questioned : 

"Could  I  go  there  and  speak  to  her  a  minute?  Or 
would  you  give  her  this?"  and  I  put  forward  Joe's  card. 

The  girl  took  it,  turned  it  over  and  read  that  boyish 
scrawl:  "Dear  Mother:  Making  Shasta  Limited  run. 
Hoe  out  my  room,  and  let  the  little  lady  and  the  kid  have 
it.  Won't  be  home  for  two  weeks." 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "Joe  Ed  sent  you." 

A  fragrance  of  coffee  began  to  diffuse  itself  upon  the  air. 
My  four-year-old  wrinkled  his  button  nose,  demanding: 

"Is  this  the  place  where  we  get  breakfast,  Muwer  ?  You 
said  it  had  to  be." 

"Huh,"  the  girl  lingered,  muttering.  "Joe  Ed  sent  you 
here  with  that  kid — the  young  devil!  He  knows  better 
than  that.  Well — come  in  and  sit  down.  I'll  call  Mrs. 
Tipton." 


50  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

This  was  certainly  a  puzzling  reception.  I  looked  about 
me.  The  hall  was  a  big,  square  room  with  rugs  on  the 
floor,  a  piano,  and  a  great  fireplace  of  rough  boulders  in 
front  of  which,  but  not  too  close,  there  was  a  table  with 
books  and  magazines,  a  lot  of  rocking  chairs  drawn  up 
toward  the  hearth,  and  at  one  side  a  long  seat  with  cush- 
ions, swung  by  chains  from  the  ceiling.  There  was  an  air 
of  homelike  comfort  a  little  different  from  what  I  had 
expected  in  a  fashionable  boarding-house. 

Over  the  mantel  was  a  portrait  of  a  man  in  Confederate 
uniform.  Below  it  a  sheathed  sword  hung  by  its  wide, 
knitted,  silken  sash,  and  a  colonel's  hat,  with  its  insignia. 

"Mrs.  Baird?" 

The  singular  voice  that  spoke  to  me,  technically  a  falset- 
to, I  suppose,  yet  had  none  of  the  forced,  shrill  quality 
we  associate  with  that  word.  It  was  like  a  little  flute  very 
softly  blown.  I  turned  to  see  a  woman  whom  I  recognised 
at  once  as  Joe  Tipton's  mother.  Though  her  eyes  were 
brown,  they  had  something  the  same  adventurous  gleam  as 
his,  and  the  short  chin  seemed  less  inadequate  on  a  femi- 
nine face.  She  looked  to  be  under  fifty,  and  must  surely 
have  been  the  very  young  wife  of  her  Confederate  colonel. 
I  got  up  and  went  toward  her,  beginning  to  explain. 

"Your  son  sent  me.  He  thought  I  could  have  his  room 
for  a  day  or  two  till  I  can  get  settled." 

"Yes?"  Again  the  soft  little  flute-like  voice  surprised 
me.  "Well, — you  might  come  up  and  look  at  it."  She 
smiled  Joe  Ed's  own  light-hearted  smile.  "I'm  not  sure 
that  you  can  get  in — Eddie  has  a  way  of  leaving  his  things 
scattered  all  over  the  place,  and  we  never  clean  it  till  the 
last  minute  before  he's  expected." 

Boy  and  I  followed  her  up  the  stairs.  The  room  was  at 
the  back  of  the  house,  on  the  third  floor ;  a  kitchen  chimney 
came  up  close  outside  its  one  window,  cutting  off  all  the 
view  and  most  of  the  light.  The  room  was  full  of  man — 
young  man — wild,  careless  boy.  It  reeked  of  masculinity. 


THE  DOOR  THAT  OPENED  TO  ME          51 

Even  my  husband-accustomed  senses  felt  it.  Cigarette 
butts  and  ash  were  everywhere.  The  half -open  closet  door 
showed  soiled  shirts  and  collars  pitched  on  the  floor,  kicked 
into  a  heap  but  springing  and  rolling  about  as  collars  will. 
The  carpet  was  worn,  faded  and  pieced,  made  over  from 
the  leavings  of  a  larger  room ;  the  old  articles  of  furniture 
all  more  or  less  out  of  repair. 

Bless  the  boy,  with  reckless  kindness  he  had  offered  me 
this  frowsy,  neglected  place  as  confidently  as  though  it  had 
been  the  best  room  in  the  house.  And,  oh,  I  was  thankful. 

"Well,"  with  another  edition  of  Joe  Ed's  smile  Mrs. 
Tipton  repeated  the  soft,  sliding  monosyllable  she  had 
used  in  the  hall  below,  "do  you  think  you  could  stay  here  T 

For  answer  my  suit-case  fell  thumping  from  my  hand. 
I  sank  on  a  chair — and  Boy  instantly  climbed  onto  my  lap 
with  that  boring  in  of  hard  little  knees  which  tired  mothers 
know  so  well. 

"Is  this  where  we  going  to  stay,  Muwer  ?"  he  demanded, 
kneeling  on  my  lap,  a  fist  on  each  side  of  my  neck,  staring 
straight  into  my  eyes.  "Will  there  be  breakfast  here  ?" 

Mrs.  Tipton  turned  at  the  door  with  a  graceful  air  of 
leave-taking.  She  surveyed  the  room,  me  and  my  child, 
making  no  comment  on  Boyce,  as  the  servant-girl  had  done. 
Her  courteous  silence  somehow  made  me  a  little  uneasy. 
I  felt  that  there  was  something  back  of  the  situation,  and 
I  hastened  to  say: 

"Your  son  only  offered  to  let  me  stay  in  the  room  be- 
cause he  was  not  occupying  it.  I  didn't  expect  to  get  my 
meals  here." 

"Yes?  You  look  tired — and  the  little  boy — I  think  I 
can  spare  Orma  to  bring  you  up  a  tray  with  some  coffee, 
and  some  oatmeal  and  milk." 

When  she  was  gone  and  the  door  shut  I  began  auto- 
matically to  pick  up  things  and  put  the  room  to  rights, 
when  Boy  called  me  from  the  window : 

"Muwer,  come  look  at  little  house." 


58  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

I  went  and  stood  behind  his  bobbing  head.  The  back 
yard  down  there  was  a  beautiful,  secluded  place ;  shut  in 
from  the  side  street  by  a  ten-foot  cypress  hedge,  separated 
from  the  other  sides  by  tall  board  party  fence  covered  with 
vines  and  masked  by  shrubbery,  and  from  the  Poinsettia 
itself,  even  in  that  limited  space,  by  a  thicket  of  bamboo. 
In  the  midst,  a  tiny  bungalow,  wrapped,  tied  about,  bun- 
dled in  a  great  wistaria  vine,  almost  filled  our  narrow  field 
of  vision.  It  was  a  little  nest,  a  quiet,  green  hermitage. 
Through  its  diamond-paned  window  Jackie-Boy's  sharp 
eyes  spied  out  a  man  sitting  at  table. 

"Me,  too,  Muvver — Boycie's  hungry,  too,"  he  instantly 
began,  on  so  loud  a  note  that  I  had  to  hush  him.  But  a 
welcome  knock  on  the  door  interrupted  us,  and  the  maid 
came  in  with  our  tray. 

"I  brought  your  breakfast  up  here,  because — "  she  was 
beginning  when  Boy  turned  with  a  shout  and  ran  toward 
it.  "Lady,  you'll  have  to  keep  him  quieter  than 
that,"  she  concluded.  "Didn't  the  Mrs.  speak  to  you 
about  it?" 

"Why,  no,"  I  said,  uneasily. 

She  put  the  tray  on  the  bed,  the  only  possible  clear  place 
to  set  it  down.  I  began  to  get  Boyce's  oatmeal  ready  as 
fast  as  I  could,  making  a  seat  for  him  of  the  suit-case  and 
using  one  of  the  chairs  for  a  table.  When  you  are  pre- 
paring food  for  a  hungry  child  you  pay  very  little  atten- 
tion to  what  is  going  on  about  you ;  but  with  Boyce  finally 
settled,  I  noticed  that  the  girl  was  still  lingering,  and  evi- 
dently had  something  more  to  say.  As  I  glanced  up  at  her 
— the  servant  girl  in  the  house  is  always  hungry  for  some- 
one to  talk  to — she  began,  a  little  deprecatingly : 

"You  know  you're  right  over  Mrs.  Thrasher's  room 
here." 

"Mrs.  Thrasher?" 

"Yes.  She's  the  owner.  She  doesn't  allow  Mrs.  Tip- 
ton  to  take  anjr  children." 


THE  DOOR  THAT  OPENED  TO  ME          53 

"Mrs.  Tipton  didn't  say  anything  about  it  to  me,"  I 
repeated  rather  blankly. 

Boyce  was  spooning  away  in  perfect  contentment,  while 
I  let  my  breakfast  get  cold. 

"Ain't  that  just  like  her?"  inquired  the  girl  in  an  ag- 
grieved tone.  "Left  it  to  me  to  tell  you.  Listen :  my  sis- 
ter's little  girl  came  in  from  the  ranch  last  month  to  have 
her  eyes  fitted  with  glasses — good,  decent  kid,  about  eleven. 
Could  I  have  her  stay  with  me?  I  could  not.  But  the 
Mrs.  didn't  say  a  word  to  me  about  it;  she  just  turned 
loose  them  old  cats  on  me." 

"Do  you  mean  the  boarders  ?" 

"The  boarders  and  Mrs.  Thrasher.  That  old  woman  sure 
is  one  devil,  esquire.  She  can't  live  with  her  husband. 
She  won't  get  a  divorce  from  him  nor  let  him  have  one. 
She's  got  a  separation,  and  half  the  money.  She  pinches 
a  nickel  till  the  buffalo  kicks.  She  made  it  so  hot  for  me 
while  I  had  Fay  here  that  I  had  to  run  the  kid  off  between 
two  days  and  telegraph  my  sister." 

"Do  they  all — are  they  all  like  that  ?"  I  was  bewildered. 
"What's  the  matter  with  them  ?" 

"The  devil,"  said  Orma.  "They've  got  nothing  to  do 
but  sit  around  and  kick.  They  complain  to  the  Mrs.  of 
me,  or  of  Addie's  cooking — talk  to  me  when  I'm  doing 
their  rooms — jump  on  Mrs.  T. — backbite  each  other."  Her 
eye  glanced  around  the  walls.  "You  ought  to  hear  Joe  Ed 
set  'em  up.  He's  got  a  nickname  for  every  one  of  'em." 

So  this  was  what  young  Tipton  meant  by  saying  that  he 
would  admire  to  be  there  when  the  dear  old  girls  got  their 
first  view  of  me — and  the  kid!  A  buzzer  sounded  from 
below,  two  short  calls. 

"There's  the  only  boarder  in  the  house  that  ain't  a 
crank."  Orma  dived  for  her  towel,  which  she  had  dropped 
on  back  of  Boyce's  table-chair.  "She's  a  lady.  If  you  do 
anything  for  her  you  get  paid.  You'd  like  Miss  Eugenia 
Chandler." 


54.  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

The  door  shut  after  her,  and  I  heard  her  hurrying  foot- 
steps on  the  stairs.  I  turned  to  my  breakfast.  Whatever 
the  situation,  I  must  eat.  Boy  was  chasing  the  last  drop 
of  cream  round  and  round  in  the  bottom  of  his  oatmeal 
bowl.  He  looked  up  to  say  to  me  with  the  satisfied,  replete 
air  of  a  fed  child. 

"  'S  good." 

"Yes,  dear,  it  is,"  I  agreed.  It  was  a  beautiful  meal — 
amber  coffee,  with  cream;  eggs,  bacon,  hot  biscuits,  all 
exquisitely  served.  As  I  finished  it  I  began  to  hear  mov- 
ing about  on  the  floor  below  me,  the  opening  and  shutting 
of  doors.  Boy,  having  slept  and  breakfasted,  was  ready 
for  play.  He  began  to  investigate  things,  promptly 
knocked  the  hairbrush  off  the  bureau,  and  it  fell  clattering. 

"You  must  be  quiet,  dear,"  I  cautioned. 

"Why?" 

"The  people  in  this  house  aren't  used  to  little  boys." 

"They  can't  hear  me.    I  fink  I  play  train-o'-cars." 

"No,  no,  Boy ;  you  mustn't." 

"Huh!"  He  squared  up  before  me,  full  of  resistance; 
I  looked  about  me  for  a  sufficient  argument. 

"Mother's  head  aches.  I  didn't  sleep  any  last  night, 
Jackie-Boy,  you  see.  I  want  to  sleep  now." 

"Can  I  cure  your  head  ?"  he  bargained ;  playing  doctor 
was  at  least  something. 

Once  down  on  the  bed,  I  realised  how  desperately  tired 
and  sleepy  I  was.  I  lay  there  and  let  him  dribble  a  sopped 
towel  over  my  forehead,  where  there  began  to  be  plenty  of 
ache.  The  water  ran  down  my  shirtwaist ;  the  feeling  of 
the  cool  moisture,  on  shoulder  and  arm,  reminded  me  with 
a  sort  of  passive  uneasiness  that  I  had  only  one  more  clean 
blouse  in  my  suit-case.  Men  say  that  life  presents  itself 
to  women  mostly  as  a  matter  of  clothes.  Well — it  is  a 
woman  who  gets  the  little  garments  ready  for  us  before 
we  come  here;  it  is  a  woman  who  struggles  to  have  us 
clean  and  properly  clad  as  other  people's  children.  A  girl's 


THE  DOOR  THAT  OPENED  TO  ME          55 

pretty  dresses  may  mean  every  opportunity  in  life  for  her ; 
a  woman  can't  go  anywhere  or  be  anybody  unless  she  has 
decent  things  to  wear.  A  man  is  estimated  upon  what  he 
is,  and  a  woman  upon  how  she  looks.  As  I  lay  there  on 
Joe  Tipton's  generously  offered,  tobacco-smelling  bed,  with 
my  head  humming,  and  Boyce  lovingly  prodding  the  cor- 
ner of  a  wet  towel  in  my  eye,  I  couldn't  think  of  anything 
much  but  the  fact  that  I  oughtn't  to  have  lain  down  in  my 
suit,  the  only  thing  I  possessed  fit  to  be  seen  on  town 
streets — and  that  it  wasn't  fit. 

Yet  I  must  have  gone  to  sleep  almost  at  once  and  slept 
soundly.  I  wakened  to  the  sound  of  the  big  stairway  clock 
striking  eleven,  and  the  murmur  of  Boy's  little  half-sung 
play  talk — he  was  used  to  making  his  own  amusements.  I 
lay  there  a  moment  thinking.  I  knew  what  I  had  to  do. 
I  must  get  up  and  go  over  every  stitch  of  my  clothes,  brush- 
ing and  cleaning,  the  same  with  Boy's,  then  wash  and  dress 
us  both  with  the  unusual  care  that  makes  a  great  differ- 
ence, even  with  shabby  old  things.  When  I  got  up  and 
began  the  work,  Boy  welcomed  me  as  though  from  a  long 
journey.  I  was  nearly  done  when  Orma  came  in  for  the 
tray.  Boy  hailed  her  as  a  relief. 

"Who  lives  in  little  house  ?"  he  demanded,  twisting  free 
and  running,  to  the  window. 

"Mr.  Dale."  Standing  beside  the  child,  she  ran  a  finger 
through  one  of  his  curls.  "You  going  out  with  your  mam- 
ma to  get  lunch  ?" 

"Yep."  Said  Boyce.  I  stood  pinning  on  my  hat  before 
the  bureau. 

"There's  a  nice  little  dairy  lunch  just  around  the  cor- 
ner on  Forty-third  street,"  she  suggested. 

"Thank  you,  that'll  be  handy,"  I  said,  and  we  all  went 
together  through  the  door,  and  down  the  first  flight  of 
stairs.  When  we  came  to  the  second-floor  landing,  where 
she  would  take  the  back  stairs  and  we  the  front,  she 
glanced  down  into  the  hall  with  a  sort  of  chuckle.  A  little, 


56  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

long-faced,  dried-up  looking  old  lady  was  fluttering  around 
the  newel  post,  peering  up  at  us. 

"There's  Miss  Creevey,"  said  the  maid.  "She  gave  Mr. 
Dale  her  book  that  she  wrote — The  History  of  Modoc 
County  in  Rhyme."  I  was  moving  on  when  she  caught 
my  sleeve  to  whisper,  "She  paid  to  have  that  book  printed, 
Joe  Ed  says.  There's  one  of  'em  on  the  hall  table.  Sure 
nobody  ever  bought  'em." 

She  went  on  down  the  back  stairs,  and  we  faced  front. 
A  sudden  timidity  fell  on  Boyce  and  me  as  we  began  to 
descend.  He  caught  hold  of  my  hand,  and  pushed  in 
against  my  skirts.  The  little  old  lady  let  go  the  newel 
post  and  backed  away. 

They  were  gathered  in  the  hall  waiting  for  the  dining- 
room  to  be  opened  for  lunch.  Mrs.  Tipton  sat  at  her  little 
desk  near  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and  just  outside  of  the 
dining-room  door.  They  all  looked  up  at  us.  Conversa- 
tion ceased  abruptly.  My  son  and  I  arrived  amid  utter 
silence.  It  is  impossible  to  see  anything  when  you  face  a 
roomful  of  people  who  are  gazing  at  you.  I  got  a  confused 
impression  of  eight  or  ten  middle-aged  women,  well- 
dressed,  and  one  small  white-haired,  whiskered  old  man, 
who  seemed  somehow  almost  as  little  like  a  real  man  as 
any  of  them.  They  grouped  around  the  fire,  though  it 
was  a  fine,  sunny  day,  continuing  to  stare  at  me  and  my 
child  as  though  we  had  been  stray  animals  who  had  gotten 
in  by  mistake.  I  nodded  to  them  in  general,  and  as  I 
passed  Mrs.  Tipton  said  to  her : 

"We  are  going  out  for  lunch." 

"Shall  you  be  in  to  dinner  ?"  she  inquired  airily. 

I  was  taken  aback.  There  was  no  ignoring  the  hostility 
of  the  others. 

"Why—"  I  stammered,  "Shall  I?  I  didn't  know— I 
thought—" 

I  broke  off.  Mrs.  Tipton  sat  smiling  her  incorrigible 
smile  and  saying : 


THE  DOOR  THAT  OPENED  TO  ME          57 

"Oh,  I  guess  we  can  give  you  some  dinner." 

"Thank  you.  I'll  be  here,"  and  I  went  on.  But  as  I 
passed  through  the  swinging  curtains  at  the  vestibule  and 
began  to  fumble  with  the  big  front  door  latch,  I  heard 
somebody  inquire,  in  awful  tones : 

"Who  was  that?"  And  before  any  answer  could  be 
made,  another: 

"A  new  boarder  ?"     Then  most  accusingly  of  all : 

"Surely  not — with  that  child !" 

I  tried  to  get  away  without  hearing  more;  but  Mrs. 
Tipton's  clear,  high  tones  brought  me  the  answer  she  made 
to  them : 

"Oh,  just  a  poor  soul  that  Eddie  sent  here.  Lunch  is 
served,  ladies.  Eddie  has  a  weakness  for  picking  up  oddi- 
ties." 

I  jerked  desperately  at  the  door,  turned  the  wrong  way, 
and  heard  a  sudden  flutter  and  scuttling  in  the  room  be- 
hind the  swinging  curtains. 

"There  he  is!" 

"Mrs.  Tutt,  send  Ermentrude  out  to  ask  him  now." 

"Quick — he'll  get  away !" 

A  fat  little  squab  of  a  woman  and  a  tall  bony  one  came 
bolting  into  the  vestibule,  puffing  the  curtains  apart  so  that 
I  had  a  glimpse  of  the  rest  of  the  women  all  running  to 
the  big  window  at  the  south,  staring  out  excitedly.  As  I 
lifted  Boyce  down  the  front  steps,  my  face  stinging  as 
though  it  had  been  slapped,  I  saw  the  object  of  their  ex- 
citement. The  driveway  which  led  to  the  back  yard  and 
the  little  bungalow  was  walled  and  roofed  by  a  mat  of 
vines,  that  made  it  a  shadowy  green  tunnel.  At  this  tunnel 
entrance  stood  a  man — a  very  marked  figure — leisurely 
drawing  on  his  gloves.  The  tall  woman,  running  past  me, 
succeeded  in  encountering  him.  As  I  approached  she  was 
delivering  in  breathless  tones  some  invitation  or  message. 

At  the  moment,  I  believe,  I  saw  and  heard  none  of  this. 
I  was  only  in  haste  to  get  away  from  the  scene  of  my 


58  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

humiliation.  An  oddity  ?  Well,  I  must  look  that  way  to 
them — these  expensively-clothed,  idle,  respectable  women, 
in  their  well-furnished  life-boat,  chopping  away  at  my 
fingers  when  I  tried  not  to  drown. 

"Wait,  Muvver — don't  go  so  fast."    Boy  brought  me  to 
myself  as  I  was  hurrying  along  Arbolado  street. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A  STALLED  OX 

— mother  forgot,  dear,"  I  said,  and  almost  with  a 
jerk  brought  my  hurrying  steps  down  to  time  with 
his  short  legs.  But  my  mind  kept  on  at  a  gallop;  why 
hadn't  I  realised  how  things  would  look  from  the  outside  ? 
Why  in  the  world  hadn't  I  gone  straight  to  Delia  Rogers  ? 
She  had  known  me  where  I  had  some  standing.  Fifteen- 
year-old  girl  that  I  was  then,  I  had  been  able  to  do  her 
favours,  and  favours  that  she  cared  for.  I  was  opposite 
one  of  those  quiet  little  neighbourhood  drug-stores  at  the 
moment;  I  hurried  in  on  impulse  and  began  feverishly 
looking  through  the  Ws  in  the  telephone  book.  There, 
one  below  the  other,  were  two  Harvey  Watkinses. 

"Boy's  hungry,"  my  son  contributed  to  my  confusion. 

"Yes,  dear — we'll  get  lunch  pretty  soon." 

"Here?" 

"No.    Be  still  a  minute,  please." 

The  first  phone  must  be  Harvey's  office — "The  Cronin 
Building,  Market  St."  The  second,  his  residence,  had 
"Las  Reudas"  prefixed  to  its  number. 

The  operator  who  took  my  call  repeated  to  me  several 
times,  "I  am  ringing  them."  Then,  after  awhile  her  voice 
came  again  over  the  wire,  "They  do  not  answer.  Here's 
your  nickel,"  and  the  coin  rattled  down  in  the  slot  and 
presented  itself,  though  I  should  never  have  discovered  it 
there  had  not  Boy  spied  and  demanded  it. 

I  gave  up  D.elia  for  the  moment — I  oughtn't  to  burst  in 
on  her  unannounced  just  at  meal-time,  anyhow — and 
found  Orma's  little  dairy  lunch  place  on  a  side  street  where 
I  could  get  something  suitable  for  Boy;  I,  myself,  was 
too  anxious  and  disturbed  to  eat. 

59 


60  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

Coming  back  to  the  street  after  his  meal  a  big,  heavy 
street-car  passed  us  with  the  name  LAS  REUDAS  on  it — 
the  place  must  be  a  suburb.  I  would  go  out  there.  Even 
if  I  didn't  find  Delia  at  home,  it  would  be  a  nice  ride  and 
occupy  the  time;  I  could  shove  a  note  under  her  door. 
The  encounter  with  the  women  at  the  Poinsettia  kept  re- 
minding me  rather  quaintly  of  that  interview  with  Mrs. 
Stanley,  whose  searing,  freezing  memory  had  never  left 
me.  With  a  sort  of  passivity  I  noted  the  difference  in  my 
present  attitude.  Then  my  opponent  had  but  to  rouse  my 
foolish  pride,  and  I  flew  to  help  her  pull  down  my  own 
card  castles.  Now,  disciplined  by  life  and  with  a  child 
dependent  upon  me,  I  meant  to  go  back  to  the  boarding- 
house  and  accept,  at  its  surface  value,  Mrs.  Tipton's  invi- 
tation for  dinner.  I  was  glad  that  I  had  come  to  that 
resolution  even  before  I  found  difficulty  in  reaching  Delia 
Rogers.  Of  course  Delia  would  have  interests,  affairs, 
burdens  of  her  own;  children,  too,  having  been  married 
longer  than  I ;  yet  it  seemed  not  too  much  to  hope  that  she 
might  be  able  to  put  me  at  once  in  the  way  of  helping  my- 
self. On  the  car  Boyce  readily  gave  up  the  telephone 
nickel  for  the  sake  of  making  his  contribution  to  the 
stream  of  coins  that  the  people  were  playing  down  into  the 
glass  box — it  appeared  you  could  have  fun  out  of  money 
in  town. 

We  rolled  out  along  palm-bordered  streets.  I  was  glad 
I  had  come.  At  Las  Reudas,  a  little  place  up  in  the  hills 
above  San  Vicente,  we  got  off  at  a  tiny  station  smothered 
in  tall  heliotropes  and  geraniums,  a  giant  fuchsia  with  a 
trunk  like  a  small  tree  hanging  coral  and  purple  clusters 
about  the  eaves.  The  wide,  quiet  streets  and  sidewalks  of 
old  Devonian  red  sandstone  of  a  soft,  dull-rose  tint  were 
beautiful  against  the  green  of  smooth  lawns,  palms  and 
pepper  trees. 

When,  after  wandering  about  a  good  deal  and  asking 
directions  several  times,  we  finally  found  the  street  that 


A  STALLED  OX  61 

Delia's  house  was  on,  and  began  to  come  to  numbers  that' 
were  near  the  right  one,  I  noticed  a  bungalow  on  the  cor- 
ner, set  in  such  a  way,  with  a  pittosporum  hedge  cutting 
it  off  from  the  house  next  door,  and  a  vacant  lot  coming 
up  behind  it,  that  it  got  an  unusual  amount  of  seclusion. 
It  was  one  of  those  lavish  modern  bungalows  into  which 
rich  people  put  as  much  money  as  would  build  a  mansion. 
Boyce  and  I  stopped  on  the  sidewalk  to  admire  it.  The 
next  house,  a  big,  concrete  place,  with  its  broad  plate-glass 
windows  all  open,  the  curtains  fluttering,  was  the  one  I 
was  looking  for.  With  a  good  deal  of  excitement  I  went 
up  the  front  walk.  Ranks  of  calla  lilies  bloomed  at  the 
porch  edge.  A  woman  was  just  finishing  the  scrubbing  of 
the  porch  steps. 

"Mr.  Harvey  Watkins  lives  here?"  I  questioned. 

She  paused  in  her  work  and  surveyed  me,  a  large,  com- 
petent-looking person,  with  an  expression  that  made  you 
think  of  scoldings  you  had  got  when  you  were  a  child. 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  Watkins  are  not  at  home,"  she  said,  and 
went  on  with  her  work. 

"They're  out  of  town?"  I  exclaimed,  blankly,  as  one 
who  has  had  a  door  shut  in  his  face.  "When  are  they 
expected  back  ?" 

"They're  not  coming  home  at  the  same  time,"  the  wom- 
an relaxed  a  little.  "He'll  be  here  first." 

I  sat  down  on  one  of  the  low,  flat  balustrades  beside  the 
steps,  and  looked  at  the  woman's  bent  back. 

"Well,  when  will  Mr.  Watkins  get  here  ?"  I  persisted. 

"To-night.  I'm  cleaning  up  and  airing  the  house  for 
him  now,"  not  uncivilly,  but  in  a  tone  that  showed  me  I 
was  on  trial — under  inspection.  I  suspected  that  she  dis- 
approved of  my  asking  for  Harvey,  only,  so  I  said : 

"I'm  quite  an  old  friend  of  Mrs.  Watkins.  I  used  to 
know  her  when  she  was  Delia  Rogers.  I  am  Mrs.  Baird. 
Will  she  be  away  long,  do  you  know  ?" 

"It's  hard  to  tell.     She  goes  and  comes  as  she  pleases. 


62  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

Your  little  boy  won't  pick  the  flowers,  will  he  ?"  for  Boyce 
had  strayed  over  to  the  hedge  and  was  down  on  his  knees 
there. 

I  shook  my  head,  wearily,  and  just  sat  still,  waiting  for 
energy  enough  to  get  up  and  go  back  to  town.  She  glanced 
at  me  once  or  twice,  and  finally  suggested : 

"San  Vicente  is  not  your  home  ?" 

"No."  Then  I  added,  hall  desperately,  "But  I'm  going 
to  make  my  home  here.  I'm  going  to  get  a  position." 

"Oh,  a  position.    Are  you  alone  ?" 

"Alone." 

She  sat  back  somewhat  ponderously  on  her  heels,  and 
gazed  over  toward  the  hedge. 

"Who  will  tend  to  the  little  boy  for  you  ?" 

"I  don't  know — yet,"  I  said.  "I'm  at  the  Poinsettia  at 
present." 

"The  Poinsettia?"  she  repeated,  and,  taking  another 
and  somewhat  different  look  at  me,  rose  from  her  knees 
and  sat  down  opposite,  remarking,  "My  name  is  Eccles.  I 
have  charge  of  things  when  Mrs.  Watkins  is  away.  Isn't 
the  Poinsettia  satisfactory  ?" 

"They  don't  allow  children  there.     They— they— " 

I  hesitated  a  moment,  but  she  wasn't  an  ordinary  scrub- 
woman. The  lonely  need  to  talk  to  someone  was  upon  me. 
Out  tumbled  the  whole  story  of  my  difficulties. 

She  listened  in  silence. 

"Still,"  she  said,  pulling  down  her  sleeves  and  button- 
ing the  wristbands,  "you  can't  blame  them.  They've  paid 
their  money — and  they  have  the  money  to  pay.  I  don't 
feel  that  way  about  children ;  I  like  to  have  them  around. 
But  you  can't  blame  them." 

"Blame  them!"  I  said,  choking.  "I  don't — particu- 
larly. But  what  in  the  world  am  I  to  do  ?" 

"I  guess  you'll  have  to  get  a  place  for  the  little  boy  to 
board  away  from  you." 

A  cold  feeling  began  to  settle  around  my  heart.     Send 


A  STALLED  OX  63 

Boy  from  me — deprive  myself  of  the  one  thing  that  had 
given  me  courage  to  climb  out  of  the  pit  ?  I  could  never 
do  it !  I  got  slowly  to  my  feet,  looking  over  to  him  at  the 
hedge. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "we  may  have  to  come  to  that,  but  not 
till  I've  tried  my  best  to  find  some  other  way.  We  must 
be  going  now."  I  wanted  to  escape. 

"I  see  you  came  out  the  Chandler  street  line,"  she  rose 
weightily.  "The  Arbolado's  more  direct ;  and  it  takes  you 
right  to  the  door  of  the  Poinsettia.  Should  you  like  to  go 
back  by  it?" 

"Why,  yes."  It  didn't  seem  to  matter  very  much  what 
direction  I  went  in — I  always  brought  up  against  some- 
thing painful  and  wounding  at  the  end  of  my  going. 

"Wait  a  minute,  then,  till  I  close  the  windows  and  put 
my  scrubbing  things  away — I'm  through  here — and  I'll 
show  you  where  to  take  the  car.  It's  just  down  past  my 
little  house." 

Boyce,  squatting  at  the  hedge,  looked  around,  and,  see- 
ing me  alone,  came  running  across  the  grass  whispering  in 
a  shout,  or  shouting  in  a  whisper,  as  children  do : 

"Come  see,  Muvver!" 

He  seized  my  hand  and  dragged  me  along  to  a  gap  in 
the  hedge.  He  approached  it  stealthily,  Indian  fashion, 
pointing  me  to  look.  I  leaned  forward,  to  please  him. 
What  I  saw  was  the  vine-embowered  downstairs  sleeping- 
porch  of  the  adjoining  bungalow,  built  so  close  to  the  hedge 
that  I  could  almost  have  reached  out  and  touched  a  man 
who  lay  reading  on  the  nearest  of  its  two  narrow,  canvas- 
covered  beds.  First  I  saw  only  the  length  of  limb,  the 
slippered  feet,  and  the  newspaper  held  by  a  well-kept  hand 
with  a  broad,  peculiar  ring  on  the  little  finger. 

Boyce,  bursting  with  importance,  nudged  and  pushed  at 
me  without  speaking.  In  the  warm  silence  I  could  hear 
the  rustle  of  the  man's  paper,  the  indefinite  small  move- 
ments of  his  body  on  the  couch.  Then  all  at  once  it  rushed 


64  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

over  me  where  I  had  before  seen  that  hand  with  its  curious 
ring;  it  was  reaching  down  to  pass  a  coin  to  a  boy — 
reaching  down  from  the  platform  of  that  train  that  had 
left  me  last  night  at  Meaghers ! 

I  shook  my  head  at  bubbling,  dancing  Boy,  caught  hold 
of  him,  backed  silently  away — and  straight  into  Mrs. 
Eccles,  coming  out  the  side  door  with  a  small,  fat  black 
spaniel.  Boy  instantly  began  to  make  friends  with  the 
dog.  I  looked  guilty.  It  was  a  relief  to  have  Boyce  sing 
out: 

"What's  the  doggie's  name  ?" 

"Fairy,"  the  woman  was  beginning  to  thaw  a  bit  to 
Boyce.  "Mrs.  Watkins  always  leaves  Fairy  with  me  when 
she  goes  away,  because  railroads  and  hotels  don't  like 
dogs." 

"He  likes  me,"  shouted  Boy,  and  he  and  Fairy  trotted 
on  ahead  of  us,  Boy  with  a  hand  buried  in  the  soft  coat. 

The  woman  looked  back  once  or  twice,  significantly, 
toward  the  house  next  door.  I  saw  she  wanted  to  talk 
about  it. 

"Are  you  acquainted  with  the  Pendletons,  too  ?"  she 
asked  finally. 

"No,"  I  answered  nervously,  "not — that  is,  I  met  him 
once  at  a  railroad  station,  but " 

I  broke  off ;  I  just  left  this  splendid  specimen  of  things 
you  would  rather  not  have  said,  unfinished.  The  silence 
that  followed  it  was  most  uncomfortable. 

"She's  away  from  home,  too."  The  woman's  pronoun 
evidently  was  meant  for  Mrs.  Pendleton.  "Gone  to  be 
with  her  mother  in  Los  Angeles  till  after  the  baby 
comes." 

"She's  very  pretty,"  I  said.  "I  saw  her  picture  in  the 
paper  at  the  time  of  her  marriage.  It  interested  me  be- 
cause the  Pendleton  camp  is  up  in  the  Oregon  mountains 
above  Siskiyou  county,  California,  where  I  was  living 
then ;  ranch  people  haven't  much  to  interest  them." 


A  STALLED  OX  65 

She  glanced  again  at  the  beautiful  bungalow. 

"I  suppose  the  land  company  thought  they'd  done  a  big 
thing  when  they  got  Alvah  Pendleton,  Jr.,  to  buy  and 
build  out  here.  Well,  he's  got  plenty  of  money — or  his 
father  has.  But  his  doings  are  a  disgrace  to  everybody 
that  owns  near  him." 

I  didn't  want  to  gossip  about  Delia's  next-door  neigh- 
bours, so  I  said  nothing,  but  she  went  on,  relishingly : 

"Shame  to  the  bird  that  fouls  its  own  nest.  Of  course 
men  will  cut  up  when  their  wives  are  away;  but  they 
ought  to  keep  it  in  its  place,  I  say — not  bring  their  women 
business  right  into  their  homes,  like  young  Pendleton's 
doing." 

Our  car  came  along,  and  cut  short  her  unpleasant  gossip. 

When  Orma  opened  the  door  to  my  ring,  there  was  no- 
body in  the  hall  but  the  little  long-faced,  dried-up  looking 
old  lady,  Miss  Creevey,  who  came  fluttering  forward  in- 
stantly— I  got  the  impression  that  she  had  been  waiting 
for  us. 

"Ith  the  child  coming  to  dinner  ?"  she  hustled  out  the 
inquiry.  I  don't  know  why  a  lisp  should  seem  ridiculous 
in  an  old  person. 

"Yes,"  said  Boy  before  I  could  answer,  "an'  my  bud'n, 
too — he's  hungry.  Want  to  see  my  bud'n  ?  He's  upstairs. 
I  go  get  him  and  show  him  to  you.  I  feeds  him  in  'e 
little  box  'at's  his  tummy." 

Miss  Creevey  looked  scared.  I  saw  she  had  meant  to 
be  severe  with  us,  and  hardly  knew  how  to  go  about  it. 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you,  Mithith— Mithith — " 

"Baird,"  I  supplied. 

"Well,  Mithith  Baird,  you  ought  not  to  bring  that  child 
into  the  dining-room.  It  ith  not  right.  We — we  won't 
thand  it." 

"She's  not  going  to  bring  him  to  the  dinner  table." 
Orma,  still  holding  the  knob,  pushed  the  door  a  little  to 
make  me  come  through  so  she  could  shut  it.  "I'll  be  taking 


66  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

his  dinner  up  to  the  room.  You  can  go  and  tell  Mrs. 
Thrasher  that— 

The  little  thin  old  lady  ruffled  and  tried  to  show  a  fierce 
f rown  to  the  maid-servant,  to  me,  even  to  Boyce ;  but  that 
was  as  far  as  it  went.  I  hurried  on  to  the  stairs,  and  Orma 
followed  me,  muttering : 

"She  needn't  think  she  can  run  over  me.  I  know  who 
put  her  up  to  it.  She's  old  Thrasher's  little  dog  Schneider. 
Thrasher's  been  chewing  the  rag  all  day.  She's  laying  for 
you.  She'll  spring  something  on  you  at  the  dinner  table — 
see  if  she  don't.  That's  always  their  place  for  a  row." 

My  head  ached — not  to  mention  my  heart,  and  my  soul. 
I  was  very  hungry. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "I  am  going  to  have  my  dinner,  any- 
how." 

Boy  was  in  his  night  clothes,  washed  and  ready,  by  the 
time  Orma  brought  up  his  meal.  He  was  so  sleepy  that 
he  almost  dropped  off  over  it,  and  I  finally  laid  him  on 
the  bed,  with  his  bud'n  clasped  to  the  front  of  his  pajamas. 

All  this  made  me  late.  When  I  got  downstairs  they 
were  in  the  dining-room,  seated  at  the  long  table.  The 
front  door  stood  open,  a  big,  luxurious  automobile  was 
drawn  up  at  the  curb  and  a  young  lady  was  getting  out 
of  it. 

"Gene,"  someone  called  after  her  from  the  car,  as  she 
came  up  the  step,  "we'll  stop  here  for  you  at  six,  then,  to- 
morrow. You  must  go.  Everybody'll  be  there." 

"At  six  to-morrow."  The  young  lady  paused  on  the 
step  and  spoke,  merely  turning  her  head.  She  was  no 
one  I  had  seen  as  yet  in  the  house,  not  at  all  pretty,  but  of 
a  tall,  exquisite,  slenderly  rounded  figure ;  and  never  be- 
fore in  my  life  had  I  seen  anyone  so  elegantly  smart.  Of 
course,  my  experience  of  fashion  was  limited,  yet  every- 
body sees  the  magazines  and  the  models  in  the  Sunday 
papers.  I  knew  as  soon  as  I  looked  at  her  that  she  must 
be  like  the  people  on  Fifth  avenue — in  Paris.  We  went 


A  STALLED  OX  67 

into  the  dining-room  almost  side  by  side,  though  I  drew 
back  a  little  to  let  her  pass  me,  and  she  acknowledged  my 
courtesy  with  a  nod  and  smile — the  first  friendly  greeting 
I  had  had  from  any  of  Joe  Ed's  "grove  of  nuts."  Mrs. 
Tipton  sat  at  the  head  of  her  table  with  its  old-fashioned 
cut  glass  and  thin  family  silver,  and,  as  I  came  in,  rose  a 
little  in  her  place  and  said  in  her  clear,  high  tones: 

'"Ladies — this  is  Mrs.  Baird.  Mrs.  Baird — Mrs. 
Thrasher — Miss  Creevey — Mr.  Martin — Mrs.  Martin — 

Mrs.  Tutt — Miss  Tutt "  and  so  around  the  line  till 

she  came  to  the  young  lady  standing  beside  me,  when  it 
was,  "Miss  Chandler — Mrs.  Baird." 

I  bowed  to  them  all  collectively.  Mrs.  Thrasher  was 
directly  across  from  me,  a  woman  with  a  curiously  hard- 
looking  head  and  face,  hair  that  I  can  only  describe  as 
scrappy,  and  an  aggressive  jaw.  It  was  almost  grotesque 
to  see  how  well  her  name  suited  her.  On  one  side  of  her 
was  Miss  Creevey,  on  the  other  the  Martins.  Of  this  pair 
the  husband  was  the  little,  old,  invalid-looking,  white- 
whiskered  man  I  had  noticed  earlier;  he  seemed  a  per- 
fectly suitable  person  to  be  included  under  Mrs.  Tipton's 
term,  "ladies." 

A  stoutish  girl  in  a  maid's  dress,  with  a  handsome,  sul- 
len face,  pulled  out  my  chair  for  me,  and  then  turned  to 
take  Miss  Chandler's  motor  coat  and  hood.  She — the 
one  person  who  attracted  me — sat  on  my  own  side  of  the 
table,  and,  once  in  her  chair,  was  out  of  my  sight.  I  could 
see  for  a  moment  that  all  the  attention  ran  to  her,  a  woman 
at  my  left  whispering  to  the  one  beyond  her  something 
about,  "That  was  the  Hoard  automobile,"  but  almost  at 
once  I  got  a  peculiar  understanding  that  comes  to  you  on 
entering  a  room  full  of  people  who  have  been  discussing 
you — saying  unpleasant  things  about  you. 

Orma  came  in  from  the  kitchen  with  my  soup.  As  I 
took  the  first  spoonful  I  caught  a  glance  passing  up  and 
down  the  table.  It  was  as  though  they  had  supposed  I 


68  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

wouldn't  eat  like  a  human  being.  I  was  hopping  mad, 
and  hurt  clear  through.  But  it  was  good  soup,  and  I 
fairly  starving.  I  took  another  spoonful.  Then  I  ate, 
swiftly,  resolutely.  With  that  sense  of  grewing  hostility 
about  me,  with  the  women  opposite  openly  neglecting 
their  dinner — Orma  had  already  changed  most  of  the 
earlier  comers'  plates — bobbing  their  heads  forward  to  ex- 
change signals,  I  made  haste  to  give  myself  the  courage 
and  support  of  some  good  hot  food.  Finally  Mrs. 
Thrasher,  elected  speaker  of  the  occasion  by  the  silent  vote 
of  the  eye,  opened  out  as  though  she  had  stood  on  a  ros- 
trum: 

"Mrs.  Baird." 

Orma  took  my  soup  plate  at  the  moment.  I  leaned 
back;  the  blood  rushed  to  my  head,  and  its  dull  ache  in- 
creased. Mrs.  Thrasher  stared  straight  across  at  me  with 
bulging  eyes.  The  clinking  of  silver  on  dishes  was  the 
only  sound  that  broke  an  expectant  silence.  As  I  sat  there 
waiting,  I  glanced  away  at  the  others.  I  don't  suppose 
there  really  is  a  special  sort  of  woman  born  and  made  to 
live  in  a  fashionable  boarding-house  and  raise  rows  about 
everything  and  nothing,  but  at  the  moment  I  thought  so. 
There  was  not  a  face  within  my  view  that  held  anything 
for  me.  The  powdered  countenances,  grey,  barren,  de- 
vitalised, the  bosoms  over  which  their  silk  frocks  fitted,  on 
which  the  bits  of  good  lace  were  displayed — were  there 
beating  hearts  in  them?  If  there  were,  I  got  no  indica- 
tion of  it.  The  little  old  Martin  man  scrabbled  at  his 
plate,  and  paid  no  attention.  Down  at  the  foot  of  the 
table  chubby  Mrs.  Tutt — I'd  had  some  hopes  of  her — 
nudged  her  tall,  angular  daughter. 

"Mrs.  Baird,  we've  all  been  quite  excited  about  you  to- 
day." The  Thrasher  woman  fired  her  first  shot. 

The  curious  titter  with  which  she  ended  most  of  her 
sentences  had  no  amusement  in  it,  nor  any  nervousness; 
it  just  seemed  to  be  a  physical  habit.  It  was  odd  to  hear 


A  STALLED  OX  69 

Miss  Creevey  echo  the  half-jeering  little  sound,  as  though 
she  wanted  to  share  it. 

Orma  set  my  dinner  before  me,  and  I  controlled  the 
nervousness  that  shook  me,  and  took  up  my  knife  and 
fork  before  I  questioned,  as  steadily  as  I  could: 

"Is  that  so  ?     And  why ?" 

"Itth  the  little  boy,"  Miss  Creevey  put  in.  "I  told  her 
children  were  not  allowed  in  the  houth." 

"Liar !"  Orma  breathed  in  my  ear  as  she  picked  up  my 
napkin  from  the  floor  and  put  it  back  in  my  lap. 

Miss  Creevey  looked  for  approval  toward  her  leader,  but 
got  a  scowl. 

I  had  realised  all  day  that  the  heavy  throbbing  in  my 
temples  was  a  cry  for  rest  and  food.  Appearances  were 
against  my  getting  either  one.  It  seemed  too  miserable  to 
have  these  women  set  on  me  at  the  table  and  spoil  my 
meal,  while  Mrs.  Tipton  at  the  head  of  it  passed  things 
and  directed  Orma  and  affected  to  see  nothing.  Well,  I 
might  not  be  up  to  Mrs.  Thrasher,  but  I  wasn't  afraid  of 
Miss  Creevey.  My  knife  twittered  against  the  plate  edge. 
I  hastily  laid  it  down  and  said : 

"You  didn't  tell  me  that  children  weren't  allowed  in  the 
house.  You  told  me  they  weren't  permitted  in  the  dining- 
room.  I  don't  expect  to  bring  my  little  boy  to  the  table." 

"Good  for  you !"  Orrna's  whisper  scared  me  more  than 
it  reassured.  The  whole  thing  seemed  nightmarish;  the 
beautifully  set  dinner  table,  the  well-dressed  diners,  the 
ugly  spirit  almost  visible,  the  servant  hanging  around  be- 
hind the  chairs  like  a  boy  at  a  dog-fight. 

"But  you  were  intending  to  keep  him  in  the  house  ?" 
Mrs.  Thrasher's  air  was  that  of  a  clever  lawyer  catching 
a  lying  witness. 

"I  only  expect  to  be  here  myself  a  few  days,"  I  began, 
but  she  broke  in  on  me : 

"Then  you  are  not  planning  to  make  your  home  in  San 
Vicente  ?" 


70  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

"Yes.  I'm  going  to  live  in  San  Vicente — that  is,  if  I 
can  find  work  here." 

Work !  I  could  see  that  I  had  dropped  definitely  below 
consideration  in  the  opinion  of  every  woman  at  the  table 
when  I  mentioned  work.  Plainly  they  were  all  above 
that — of  the  idle  class,  if  not  of  the  rich.  I  suppose  most 
of  them  had  a  bare  little  income — just  enough  to  live  on 
and  despise  women  who  work ! 

"I  take  it  you  are  a  widow  then?"  Mrs.  Thrasher  de- 
manded, as  one  who  had  a  perfect  right  to  question. 

"No." 

"Ah!  And  when  do  you  expect  Mr. — er — Baird  to 
join  you  ?" 

"I  don't  expect  him  at  all." 

Leaning  forward  to  glance  down  the  table  in  Mrs.  Tip- 
ton's  direction,  I  caught  the  eyes  of  Miss  Eugenia  Chand- 
ler, faintly  amused,  rather  friendly ;  she  glanced  from  me 
to  the  line  of  women  across,  then  looked  down  at  her  plate 
and  went  on  with  her  dinner. 

"You  don't — expect  your  husband — to  join  you  ?"  Mrs. 
Thrasher  ejaculated. 

I  was  just  baited  enough  to  be  bewildered  and  unwise — 
after  all,  Mrs.  Thrasher  was  nothing  to  me.  She  couldn't 
eat  me. 

"I've  left  my  Imsband,"  I  told  the  whole  tableful,  hotly. 
"I'm  going  to  get  a  divorce  from  him.  That's  what  I  came 
to  San  Vicente  for." 

"Oh !"  A  sigh,  the  most  ridiculous  sound  I  ever  heard, 
like  the  gasp  of  a  collapsing  bicycle  tire,  went  around  the 
line.  It  was  as  though  I  had  announced  that  I  had  come 
to  San  Vicente  to  pick  pockets. 

"Aren't  we  wandering  from  the  point  ?"  asked  Miss 
Creevey.  "I  tried  to  tell  Mithith  Baird  kindly  that  chil- 
dren are  not  allowed  in  thith  houth.  They  are  not.  I 
thpoke  to  Mithith  Tipton  about  it,  too.  I  athked  her  if 
you  had  gone  out  to  get  other  lodgingth,  Mithith  Baird. 


A  STALLED  OX  71 

Mithith  Tipon  thaid  maybe  you  had.  Ithn't  that  what 
you  thaid,  Mithith  Tipton  ?" 

The  lady  at  the  head  of  the  table  nodded,  but  Mrs. 
Thrasher  gave  her  no  time  to  reply. 

"We  have  certainly  not  wandered  from  the  point,"  she 
snorted.  "I  should  say  we  had  wandered  to  the  point. 
Of  course,  Mrs.  Baird  will  get  other  lodgings  for  her  lit- 
tle boy  if  she  expects  to  remain  in  this  house.  There  are 
institutions  that  take  care  of  the  children  of  working 
mothers.  The  Poinsettia  is  not  one  of  them.  It  is  this 
later  development  that  attracts  my  attention." 

"Development — later  development  ?"  I  echoed. 

"Divorce.     All  the  world  .knows  the  stand  I  have  taken 

on  this  question.     I  haven't  written  any  books "  she 

jabbed  this  in  an  ironical  tone  at  Miss  Creevey,  who 
cringed  as  though  she  had  been  prodded  with  a  stick — 
"but  I  have  spoken  publicly  before  a  number  of  assemblies. 
I  have  a  reputation  to  maintain,  national,  if  not  interna- 
tional, and  I  should  like  to  know  what  cause " 

She  paused,  nailing  me  with  those  round  eyes.  I  was 
as  furious  as  a  hungry,  thwarted,  tormented  animal. 
Instead  of  saying  "It's  none  of  your  business,"  I  ex- 
ploded : 

"I'm  leaving  my  husband  and  getting  a  divorce  from 
him  because  I  felt  that  our  marriage  was  immoral." 

In  how  many  sleepless  nights,  watching  the  blue-lipped 
dawn  in,  had  I  agonised  out  that  conclusion !  It  had  be- 
come a  commonplace  to  me — the  raw,  fundamental  truth 
that  sent  me  running  away  in  the  night.  At  its  announce- 
ment a  hush  fell  upon  the  dining-room.  You  would  have 
thought  I  had  blasphemed  the  Holy  Ghost. 

"Marriage — immoral !"  murmured  Mrs.  Tutt,  feebly. 
"Why,  a  marriage  can't  be  immoral!" 

"Er — er — ump !"  little  Mr.  Martin  began  to  creak  un- 
expectedly. "Er — er — hasn't  this  lady  got  a  right " 

But  Miss  Chandler's  voice,  mildly  ironical,  was  raised 


72  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

for  the  first  time  since  she  thanked  the  maid  for  taking 
her  hat. 

"Don't  you  think,  good  people,  that  these  personal  dis- 
cussions are  bad  for  the  digestion  ?" 

The  speech  produced  something  the  same  effect  of  her 
entrance  into  the  dining-room.  There  was  a  straighten- 
ing out  of  their  faces ;  an  attempt  to  smile  and  be  civil. 

"I  don't  want  to  talk  about  my  affairs  at  the  table,"  I 
said,  abashed.  "I'm  sorry  I  allowed  myself  to  do  so." 

"Oh,  well,  it  can't  matter — as  you're  leaving  so  soon," 
was  Mrs.  Thrasher's  conclusion.  "Ermentrude,"  she 
spoke  to  Miss  Tutt,  "did  you  overtake  Mr.  Dale  this  morn- 
ing ?  What  did  he  say  ?  I  do  hope  he  promised  to  come." 

"Well,"  Ermentrude  was  almost  sprightly,  "he  didn't 
say  he  wouldn't  come." 

"He  never  does  say  he  won't,"  lamented  Mrs.  Martin; 
"he  just  doesn't  come." 

After  a  moment  of  depressed  silence,  Miss  Creevey 
asked  with  passionate  concern  whether  Mrs.  Tutt  had 
found  the  double-threaded  canvas  at  a  certain  shop,  and 
then  Mrs.  Thrasher  went  into  the  discussion  of  some  score 
cards  that  would  be  needed  at  an  approaching  festivity. 
The  talk  flowed  toward  what  was  evidently  its  usual  chan- 
nel; solemn,  trifling  arguments  over  the  important  ques- 
tion of  twilled  or  plain,  the  relative  merits  of  some  re- 
cent novels,  with  a  great  deal  of  criticism  on  the  new  hat 
of  a  lady  not  present.  I  and  my  unfortunate  affairs  were 
let  alone.  I  might  eat  now — if  I  could.  I  sat  through 
the  rest  of  the  meal,  silent,  trying  to  steady  my  quivering 
nerves  and  control  my  stung  sensibilities.  This  boarding- 
house  was  not  all  the  world ;  to-night  was  not  all  of  time. 
I  never  glanced  up  again.  Without  waiting  for  dessert,  I 
murmured  "Excuse  me"  in  the  direction  of  Mrs.  Tipton 
and  got  away — upstairs  to  the  room  and  Boy. 

I  stood  by  the  bed  and  looked  down  at  him.  He  had 
mounted  the  covers  with  that  queer,  plunging  kick  of  a 


THERE  WAS  A  HOAKSE,  STARTLED  WHISPER,  "JOE  !" 
I  SAW  A  YOUNG  WOMAN  STANDING  JUST  INSIDE  THE 
WINDOW  LOOKING  WILDLY  AT  ME 


A  STALLED  OX  78 

sleeping  child ;  one  foot  was  outside  and  one  in.  He  lay 
in  a  sort  of  galloping  pose  that  brought  out  all  the  vigour 
of  his  body.  What  had  those  women  downstairs  there  to 
be  proud  of,  as  I  was  proud  of  him?  Besides  the  ache, 
my  head  had  a  sort  of  spongy  feeling  as  though  it  were 
filled  with  cotton.  One  moment  I  saw  the  child  as  he 
really  was ;  the  next  he  shrank  suddenly  like  a  thing  seen 
through  a  reversed  opera  glass.  I  covered  him.  He 
promptly  kicked  the  cover  off — asleep  or  awake,  my  baby 
man  had  no  truck  with  doubt,  hesitation  or  timidity.  I 
undressed,  set  the  sliding  window  well  ajar  for  air,  and 
lay  down  beside  his  rosy,  courageous  sleep,  reaching  up  to 
turn  off  the  electric  light  that  hung  just  above  the  bed. 

On  the  instant  my  troubles  rushed  over  me  again.  I 
had  been  dead  for  sleep,  yet  with  the  stretching  out  on 
my  bed,  the  darkness  and  quiet,  all  power  to  command 
it  left  me.  It  wasn't  that  I  was  wide  awake.  I  seemed 
almost  as  sleepy  as  ever — yet  I  couldn't  sleep.  Things 
that  had  been  only  mental  worries  in  the  daytime,  in  the 
light,  took  actual  form  and  came  at  me.  I  found  that 
I  was  going  to  cry.  I  was  afraid  of  myself.  If  I  began, 
that  I  might  wake  Boy ;  I  might  rouse  the  house.  I  strug- 
gled to  control  the  long,  shuddering  sobs  that  took  me 
and  shook  me  from  head  to  foot.  Disappointment,  fail- 
ure, humiliation — it  had  all  begun  back  there — back  there 
— I  felt  the  thought  coming,  and  tried  desperately,  vainly, 
to  push  it  away — back  there  with  the  ending  of  things  be- 
tween Philip  and  me,  there  in  the  side  yard  of  his  father's 
house.  For  the  moment  I  was  that  girl,  suffering  all  she 
had  suffered,  with  the  woman's  added  keen  perception  of 
what  it  was  going  to  mean.  I  tried  to  get  up,  and  fell  back 
on  my  pillow,  muffling  my  head  in  the  bed-clothes,  ter- 
ribly frightened  lest  I  should  scream  as  I  had  that  time 
when  I  had  to  tell  my  mother. 

Life  disciplines  us.  I  didn't  scream.  The  crisis  passed, 
bringing  almost  unconsciousness  at  the  moment,  leaving 


74  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

me  weak,  shivering,  spent,  the  tears  slipping  down  my 
miserable  cheeks — but  I  had  made  no  disturbance.  I  lay 
there,  longing  intensely  for  the  boon  of  sleep,  but  it  was 
denied  me.  The  clock  on  the  landing  of  the  stairway 
checked  off  the  hours  and  the  half  hours.  There  was  no 
wind  and  the  house  was  very  still.  I  heard  it  strike  two, 
and  then  I  must  have  dozed,  for  it  seemed  almost  instantly 
that  I  was  listening  to  it  again.  One-^-two — three!  I 
counted  the  strokes,  bewildered,  not  at  first  recognising 
what  sounds  they  were.  There  in  the  dark  I  slowly  ad- 
justed matters.  I  reached  out  and  touched  Boy,  grad- 
ually recollecting  where  I  was.  The  smell  of  the  room 
helped  me  in  that.  It  told  my  senses  that  I  was  not  in 
my  home;  it  addressed  something  that  answers  very 
quickly,  and  brought  up  the  whole  matter  of  this  place,  its 
owner,  and  the  way  I  came  to  be  occupying  it.  Across 
from  me  there  was  a  long,  narrow  strip  of  dim  illumina- 
tion— the  window.  At  the  foot  of  my  bed  the  door  would 
be.  On  the  instant  there  came  a  cautious  sound  from  that 
direction.  I  knew  then  that  the  clock  had  not  wakened 
me — it  was  this  little  noise.  A  cold  prickling  ran  over  me 
as  the  knob  of  the  door  was  turned  cautiously,  tried,  gently 
rattled — and  then  silence. 

My  heart  plunged  so  that  it  almost  choked  me ;  I  opened 
my  lips  to  breathe  more  noiselessly.  After  all,  it  was  an- 
other person's  room — mightn't  someone  be  just  making  a 
mistake  ?  But  it  was  no  use.  My  heart  was  still  pound- 
ing up  in  my  throat,  and  a  cold  wetness  beginning  to 
gather  on  my  forehead,  when  a  new  sound,  over  by  the 
window,  went  through  me  like  an  electric  shock.  With  a 
shaking  hand  I  fumbled  for  the  light  switch  above  my 
head.  Somebody  was  pulling  at  the  sliding  casement, 
which  I  had  left  ajar ! 

I  strained  my  eyes  and  made  out  what  seemed  to  me 
to  be  an  arm  across  the  lower  part  of  the  glass.  Yes,  there 
was  someone  kneeling  there  on  the  kitchen  roof  and  try- 


A  STALLED  OX  75 

ing  to  slide  the  sash.  It  gave  suddenly  with  a  rasp,  and 
the  figure  stood  up.  I  got  the  silhouette  against  such  light 
as  there  was — a  woman  in  her  nightgown. 

I  couldn't  make  a  sound.  The  intruder  had  climbed 
through  the  window  before  my  hand  found  the  switch  and 
I  snapped  on  the  light. 

As  the  room  sprang  suddenly  into  sight,  there  was  a 
hoarse,  loud,  startled  whisper,  "Joe!"  I  saw  a  heavy 
young  woman  in  a  nightgown  whose  top  was  coarse  lace 
standing  just  inside  the  window  looking  wildly  at  me,  at 
my  clothes  on  the  chair,  my  sleeping  child. 

For  a  moment  she  halted  so,  her  mouth  open,  her  eyes 
scared;  then  she  groped  back  with  her  hand  toward  the 
window  sill,  found  it,  whirled  her  bare  feet  up  and  over 
it,  and  I  heard  them  come  down  on  the  flat  tin  roof  out- 
side. I  switched  off  the  light.  In  the  instant  of  its  il- 
lumination I  had  recognised  the  maid,  Addie. 


CHAPTEK  V 

HARVEY  WATKINS 

IT  seems  strange  that  after  such  a  visitation  as  that  I 
went  sound  asleep,  and  never  knew  anything  till  I 
was  awakened,  late  next  morning,  by  a  thumping  noise. 
There  was  Boyce,  in  pajamas,  sitting  on  the  floor  leading 
his  faithful  bud'n  around  him  in  circles.  I  leaped  up 
and  ran  across  before  I  fairly  knew  where  I  was,  calling 
softly : 

"Boy — you  mustn't  hammer  like  that !" 

"My  bud'n  taking  a  walk,"  he  explained.  I  only  got 
him  diverted  by  talk  of  breakfast. 

I  hurried  with  my  dressing,  then  began  to  hustle  Boy 
into  his  clothes — to  go  somewhere,  to  do  something,  I 
didn't  know  where  or  what.  He  flinched  from  my  chilly 
fingers. 

"Stand  over  here,  dear."  I  lifted  him  into  the  strip  of 
sunshine  that  began  to  come  through  the  half-obscured 
window. 

Dressing  Boy  always  heartened  me  up.  It's*  the  luxury 
of  motherhood  to  revel  in  the  beauty  of  a  child,  as  a  little 
girl  with  her  doll — and  Boy  was  such  a  gorgeous  doll ! 

"Leave  bud'n  here,  an'  bring  him  some  breakfast,"  he 
offered  generously,  as  I  gave  his  curls  a  final  tossing  up, 
and  I  realised  that  he  had  been  watching  my  face  for  some 
time,  "being  good"  while  I  dressed  him. 

In  the  hall  outside  we  came  on  Orma.  She  glanced  up 
and  down ;  then  said,  significantly : 

"Have  any  visitors  last  night?" 

I  hesitated  and  floundered  for  the  right  reply.  She  be- 
gan to  laugh  silently,  whispering : 

"Ssshhh!     Needn't  say  a  word.     I  know  all  about  it. 

76 


HARVEY  WATKINS  77 

Served  Miss  Ad  right — if  you  ask  me.  What'd  I  done 
that  she  wouldn't  speak  to  me  all  day?  If  she  hadn't 
been  in  one  of  her  grand  sulks  and  treated  me  so  mean, 
I'd  have  warned  her  that  he  didn't  come  home — that  there 
was  somebody  else  in  the  room.  Huh !  Let  her  find  out 
by  her  own  smartness !" 

I  was  still  trying  to  think  what  I  ought  to  say  when  she 
came  close  up  and  asked: 

"Are  you  going  to  complain  to  the  Mrs.  ?" 

"Oh,  certainly  not,"  I  cried,  then  added  hastily,  "I 
don't  know  what  you're  talking  about." 

She  laughed  out,  flapped  her  hand  at  me,  and  scuttled 
toward  the  back  stairs.  Boy  and  I  went  down  the  front 
ones,  to  find  the  big  hall  empty,  everybody  at  breakfast 
in  the  dining-room. 

We  had  our  meal  at  a  down-town  bakery ;  I  ate  slowly ; 
I  took  my  coffee  in  tiny  sips,  wincing  from  the  plunge  be- 
fore me.  Last  night's  experience  had  weakened  my  nerve 
— I  wasn't  so  ready  for  a  few  thousand  strangers  as  I  had 
been.  Delia  Rogers  out  of  town,  there  was  not  a  soul  in 
the  place  that  I  knew,  yet  something  must  be  done  to-day. 
When  I  opened  my  purse  to  pay  for  our  lunch,  the  first 
thing  I  pulled  out  was  the  card  on  which  I  had  written 
the  number  of  Harvey  Watkins's  telephone  and  his  busi- 
ness address.  He  would  be  back  in  San  Vicente  to-day. 
I  didn't  like  going  to  his  office,  yet  he  might  be  able  to 
suggest  something  helpful,  quite  as  well  as  Delia.  It 
couldn't  do  any  great  harm  to  just  speak  to  him  and  see. 
This  was  Market  street;  I  remembered  the  sign  on  the 
electric-light  post  at  the  corner.  I  looked  up  and  down  a 
bit,  then  saw  the  name  "Cronin  Building"  on  the  big, 
white,  glazed-brick  structure  on  the  opposite  corner.  I 
hurried  across  the  street  and  was  in  the  tiled  hall,  waiting 
for  the  elevator  to  take  me  to  the  sixth  floor,  before  there 
was  time  to  doubt  or  repent. 

Word  had  come  back  to  us  that  Harvey  was  prosperous, 


78  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

and  I  always  understood  that,  while  Delia  Rogers  her- 
self had  no  money,  her  family  was  wealthy  and  influen- 
tial, but  the  suite  of  offices  occupied  by  McBride,  McBride 
&  Watkins,  with  people  at  work  in  the  outer  room,  from 
which  doors  marked  "Private"  opened  off,  was  much  finer 
than  I  had  expected.  The  walls  were  covered  with  a  heav- 
ily embossed  imitation-leather  paper.  Huge  bookcases, 
spaced  at  regular  intervals,  reached  up  to  the  frieze  and 
held  row  after  row  of  large  leather-bound  volumes.  An 
oil 'painting  hung  above  the  clinker-brick  fireplace.  The 
heavy  brown  art  hanging  curtains  were  of  a  kind  I  had 
seen  described  in  women's  journals.  The  stiff  chairs 
about  the  room,  of  Mission  oak,  matched  the  tables,  at  one 
of  which,  near  the  door,  a  tired-looking,  middle-aged  man 
in  seedy  clothes  clacked  away  at  a  typewriter.  When  he 
paused  and  looked  at  me,  I  asked  if  I  could  see  Mr.  Wat- 
kins.  He  seemed  doubtful.  Mr.  Watkins  had  just  re- 
turned to  town;  was  my  business  anything  that  could 
wait  ?  Would  I  call  to-morrow  when  Mr.  Watkins  wasn't 
so  much  occupied  ? 

It  was  disconcerting,  and  it  shifted  my  ideas  bewilder- 
ingly.  Back  home  in  Stanleyton,  a  light-hearted  girl  in 
love  with  her  Philip,  I  had  known  that  you  had  to  be  care- 
ful or  you'd  get  a  little  more  than  you  wanted  of  Harvey 
Watkins ;  I  had  never  thought  of  his  values.  Now  I  per- 
sisted : 

"I  want  to  see  him  this  morning,  if  possible." 

"We-ell,"  the  seedy-looking  old  man  hesitated,  "I  can 
ask." 

I  scribbled  my  name,  the  word  "Stanleyton"  and  the 
date  six  years  ago  on  the  blank  card  he  offered;  he  took 
it  and  returned  promptly  with  a  much  enlivened  air, 
saying: 

"You  can  go  right  in.  Hadn't  you  better  leave  the  little 
boy  with  me  ?" 

"Thank  you."     I  hesitated,  but  Boyce  seemed  willing 


HARVEY  WATKINS  79 

enough,  so  I  made  my  way  alone  to  the  door  with  Har- 
vey's name  on  it. 

The  man  who  rose  and  stood  beside  the  desk  in  that 
inner  room  to  receive  me  might  well  have  been  a  stranger. 
Harvey  Watkins,  in  the  six  years  since  I  had  last  seen 
him,  had  made  the  step  from  young  man  to  middle-aged 
man — and  there  was  nothing  in  him  now  for  me  to  re- 
member. His  straight,  stiff  black  hair,  sprinkled  with 
grey,  lay  close  to  a  hard  head ;  the  lines  of  face  and  figure 
had  set  into  the  lawyer  mould,  and  the  excellent  suit  that 
any  business  man  might  have  worn  seemed  lawyer-like  to 
me,  too.  He  looked  prosperous — a  man  to  be  put  forward 
in  the  affairs  of  his  town ;  but  he  held  up  my  little  slip  of 
paper,  and  when  he  glanced  from  it  to  me  I  got  just  a 
gleam  of  the  old  Harvey  Watkins. 

"So  this  is  California  Ann,"  he  said,  shaking  hands. 
"Well — it  is  six  years  since  we  saw  each  other  in  Stanley- 
ton,  isn't  it?" 

The  boys  and  girls  in  school  used  to  tease  me  with  that 
"California  Ann."  Here,  among  grangers,  it  seemed  to 
me  that  I  could  have  hugged  a  hitching  post  if  it  had 
been  from  the  old  village  and  had  addressed  me  that  way. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you've  got  back  to  town,"  I  cried,  im- 
pulsively, holding  to  his  hand  till  I  got  the  familiar 
squeeze  that  reminded  me  again  of  Harvey  Watkins  who 
was  a  little  too  old  for  our  set,  about  whom  we  schoolgirls 
used  to  exchange  whispered  confidences. 

"Same  here,"  returned  Harvey,  sprucing  up — I  can  use 
no  other  phrase — and  beginning  to  take  stock  of  me.  "I'm 
just  back  from  the  South.  I  went  to  take  Delia  to  the 
Jefferson  Sanitarium  at  Santa  Anita." 

"Oh,  that's  too  bad!"  I  murmured.  "Is — is  it  any- 
thing serious  ?" 

"No."  Harvey  spoke  with  dry  finality.  "There's  noth- 
ing particular  the  matter  with  Dele.  But  the  Lord  only 
knows  when  she'll  be  back — if  ever.  She  enjoys  lazing 


80  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

around  in  those  places.  They  wait  on  her  and  fuss  her 
up,  and  'my  dear'  her.  It's  a  change  from  card  parties 
and  clubs.  Are  you  in  town  for  long,  Calla  ?" 

"I've  come  to  stay,"  I  put  forward  with  what  courage 
I  could. 

"That  so  ?"  Harvey's  side  glance  at  the  piled  work  on 
his  desk  was  natural  enough;  if  I  were  coming  to  San 
Vicente  to  live,  there  seemed  no  reason  that  I  should  take 
up  his  whole  morning  telling  him  of  it. 

"Yes.  I'm  looking  for  work,"  I  blurted.  "I  went  out 
to  your  house  yesterday — I  thought  Delia  might  tell  me 
something  I  could  earn  a  living  at." 

"What's  the  matter  with  Baird  ?" 

"I'm  leaving  Oliver." 

The  words  came  with  difficulty.  It  was  the  first  time 
I  had  said  them  to  anyone  who  knew  me  well,  who  might 
question  or  oppose. 

"You're  leaving "     His  tone  was  startled.     "Take 

a  seat,  Calla."  He  pushed  a  chair  toward  me  and  sat  down 
facing  it.  I  stood  a  moment  drawn  up,  one  hand  on  its 
back. 

"Don't  ask  me  anything,  please,  Harvey,"  I  began. 
"There's  no  hope  of  my  changing  my  mind." 

"That's  what  they  all  say — at  first,"  he  commented. 

"This  isn't  at  first,"  I  took  him  up  quickly.  "It's  at 
long,  long  last.  I've  been  nearly  four  years  coming  to 
it — and  I'll  never  go  back." 

"Nearly  four  years  ?"  Harvey  repeated.  "Then  the 
match  was  no  good  from  the  start — eh  ?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"Hasn't  he  supported  you?" 

"Yes,  yes— that's  not  it." 

"Thought  you  said  you  were  looking  for  work  ?" 

"I  am — I've  got  just  nine  dollars  and  fifteen  cents  in 
the  world — borrowed  money  at  that.  I  got  it  of  the  grocer 
we  sold  cream  to — borrowed  it  to  run  away  on." 


HARVEY  WATKINS  81 

"Well,"  Harvey  half  smiled,  "I  guess  you  can  borrow 
some  more  from  me  to  stay  away  on." 

My  face  flamed,  and  I  cried  out : 

"Oh,  I  didn't  come  here  for  that." 

"No?  Then  what  can  I  do  for  you?  You  see,  with 

Dele  away  from  home Are  you  fixed  for  a  place  to 

stay?" 

"Why,  I'm  at  the  Poinsettia— 

"The  Poinsettia !"  Harvey  laughed  so  widely  that  the 
gold  gleamed  from  his  teeth.  "By  George!  You're  the 
same  little  scatter-brained  California  Ann — the  same  girl, 
if  your  hair  is  done  up  different !  It  took  her  to  come  into 
a  town  with  less  than  ten  dollars  in  her  pocket — and  go 
to  the  Poinsettia!" 

"Wait,"  I  said.  "You  don't  know  how  it  is.  I'm  not  a 
regular  boarder  there.  It's  just  a  temporary  arrangement. 
A  young  man — on  the  train  from  Meaghers — lets  me  have 
his  room  there — for  nothing — while  he's  away  in  Santa 
Cruz  for  his  vacation.  I  don't  know  what  I  should  have 
done  if  he  hadn't  offered  it  to  me." 

I  spoke  rapidly.  Harvey  watched  me  with  the  puzzled 
gaze  of  these  dense  people  whose  minds  cannot  follow 
quick  speech.  I  felt  that  I  had  lost  him  about  halfway 
through  my  statement. 

"Go  back  to  the  beginning  and  say  that  all  over,"  he 
demanded.  "Who's  this  man  you  left  Meaghers  with  ? 
One  of  the  Stanleyton  fellows  ?  Not  Phil — is  it  ?" 

"Oh,  Harvey !"  I  protested,  almost  in  tears.  "What  an 
idea!" 

"I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  your  feelings,  Calla.  But  when 
a  woman  runs  away  from  her  husband,  it's  usually  an- 
other man.  I  didn't  mean  any  harm.  By  George,  you'd 
be  a  lucky  girl  if  it  was  Phil.  Old  L.  C.'s  been  getting 
richer  and  richer;  everything  he  touches  turns  to  money. 
Our  firm's  just  bought  a  California  property  for  him 
that'll  net  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  income  in  a  good 


82  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

year.  Seems  a  sort  of  pity  you  couldn't  have  hung  on  to 
that — don't  it  ?" 

He  glanced  at  my  face,  and  pulled  himself  up  short. 

"Oh,  all  right — all  right,  Calla !  Now,  what  about  this 
other  fellow  ?" 

"He  was  just  the  brakeman  on  the  train,"  I  said,  winc- 
ing. "He  was  very  good  to  me  and  said  I  could  have  the 
room  till " 

"Where  is  he  now  ?" 

"He  went  on  with  the  train — to  his  vacation — in  Santa 
Cruz,  as  I  told  you.  He  won't  be  back  for  two  weeks." 

"Oh — he's  coming  back,  then  ?" 

"Why,  his  mother  keeps  the  house !  Mrs.  Tipton — he 
sent  me  to  her." 

"His  mother.  Um,  I  see.  So  you're  settled  for  two 
weeks  ?" 

"No,  I'm  not  settled  at  all.  They  don't  allow  children 
at  the  Poinsettia." 

"Children !"  Harvey  echoed  the  word.  "You  haven't 
any " 

I  had  noted,  right  through  the  stress  of  our  later  talk, 
a  soft  fumbling  and  bumping  at  the  door.  Now  it  swung 
in ;  Boy  stood  a  moment  on  the  threshold,  his  feet  planted 
wide,  his  eyes  surveying  the  room;  then  marched  to  the 
centre  of  the  floor  and  announced: 

"I'm  John  Boyce  Baird.  I'm  come  to  live  in  San  Vi- 
cente now.  I  used  to  live  on  a  ranch." 

Harvey  stared,  mouth  open.  That  wooden  face  of  his 
began  to  change.  It  was  a  new  voice  in  which  he  said, 
never  taking  his  gaze  from  the  child : 

"Is  this  your  boy,  Calla?  How  time  does  fly!  And 
you've  named  him  for  your  father.  Come  here  and  shake 
hands,  young  man." 

"Now  you  see  why  I've  got  to  hunt  work  and  lodgings 
both  to-day,"  I  said.  "I  don't  suppose  you  could  put  me 
in  the  way  of  any  kind  of  work?" 


HARVEY  WATKINS  83 

"I  should  think  the  mother  of  a  son  like  this  would 
have  her  hands  full."  Harvey  took  my  man-child  by  the 
shoulders,  gloating  over  him.  John  Boyce  Baird  looked 
up  in  his  face  and  opened  a  friendly  conversation : 

"Are  you  got  any  little  boys  ?" 

Harvey  lifted  him  to  his  knee.  Across  the  turbulent 
bronze  curls  he  shook  his  head  significantly. 

"Delia  won't  stand  for  it,"  he  said.  "She  can  talk  your 
arm  off  about  reasons  why,  but  when  it  comes  down  to 
brass  tacks,  Dele  is  just  a  plain  shirk.  Good  Lord — think 
of  having  a  boy  like  this !" 

"I  do  think  of  it,"  I  cried.  "I  think  of  it  all  day  and 
all  night — and  put  it  in  my  prayers.  It's  what  gave  me 
strength  and  courage  to  run  away." 

A  slow  grin  spread  over  Harvey's  unimaginative,  law- 
yer countenance. 

"I  guess  California  Ann  ran  away  on  her  own  strength 
and  courage.  This  young  man  didn't  borrow  the  money 
for  you,  did  he  ? — or  get  you  the  room  ?" 

Boyce's  small  chest  puffed  instantly.  He  felt  himself 
criticised. 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  work  and  earn  money  and  take  care 
of  my  muvver,"  he  spoke  up  bravely. 

"Of  course  you  are,"  agreed  Harvey.  "It's  something 
fierce  the  way  we  men  have  to  work  for  the  women,  isn't 
it,  J.  B.  ?" 

"Do  you  work  ?" 

"I  should  say  so." 

"Where's  your  overalls  ?" 

"Well,"  Harvey  looked  rather  put  to  it,  "I  guess  these 
pants  are  overalls  for  my  kind  of  work." 

"Huh,"  said  Boy,  and  he  pinched  disparagingly  at  the 
tweed  knee  on  which  he  sat.  "They  ain't  the  kind  I 
wear." 


"Mine  are  'Can't  Bust  'Ems.' 


84  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

"That's  the  right  sort,"  agreed  Harvey.  He  swung 
Boyce  down  and  stood  him  at  arm's  length  on  the  floor, 
keeping  a  tallying  hand  against  his  shoulders  and  arms, 
hefting  him,  studying  him,  as  he  added,  softly :  "If  I  had 
you  out  at  my  house,  we'd  get  into  our  'Can't  Bust  'Ems' 
and  do  some  work — wouldn't  we?" 

"I  don't  know  if  I  could  go  to  your  house."  Boy 
scuffed  one  foot  doubtfully  against  the  other.  "These 
shoes  I've  got  on  are  'Steel  Clads.'  When  I  get  bigger  I 
can  wear  'Boy  Scouts/  What  does  your  little  boy  wear  ?" 

"I  haven't  any  little  boy." 

"Not  any— at  all?" 

"No." 

"Haven't  you  even  got  any  little  girl  ?" 

"No — not  any  little  girl,  even." 

"But  you've  got  a  wife,  and  you  got  a  house  to  put 
childrens  in  ?" 

"Oh,  yes — the  house  is  there  all  right — a  great  big 
house — empty." 

He  appealed  to  me: 

"Calla,  J.  B.'s  the  right  stuff  for  a  lawyer.  Better  let 
me  make  one  of  him.  That's  the  most  luminous  cross- 
examination  I  was  ever  put  through.  I  guess  it  gets  the 
case  of  me  vs.  Dele  before  you  in  a  nutshell." 

"It  seems  as  though  everybody's  having  trouble  with 
their  marriage,"  I  said,  embarrassed. 

The  'phone  rang.  Harvey  answered  it  impatiently,  and 
put  somebody  off  till  to-morrow. 

"Marriage  is  trouble,"  he  grumbled,  as  he  hung  up. 
"You  may  thank  your  stars  you're  getting  out  of  it." 

"And  thank  you  for  saying  that — for  not  trying  to  stop 
me,"  I  added. 

"Huh,  you've  got  nothing  to  thank  me  for,  yet.  But 
there's  one  thing  I  can  do.  I  can  get  your  divorce." 

"It's  good  of  you  to  offer,"  I  said.  "But  the  first  thing 
I  must  do  is  to  look  for  a  job." 


HARVEY  WATKINS  85 

"That's  right  where  you're  mistaken."  He  leaned  for- 
ward and  shook  his  finger  at  me.  "You  little  gump !  Till 
that  divorce  is  got,  you  have  no  legal  status.  Baird  could 
come  in  and  take  this  child  from  you  any  day." 

"Could  he  ?"  I  questioned,  startled.  "But,  Harvey,  he 
never  loved  the  child." 

I  lowered  my  voice,  yet  Boy  had  heard.  The  round, 
pink  chin  was  thrust  forward. 

"I  don't  like  Mm/'  said  Oliver's  son.  "He  whips  me 
hard." 

"There  you've  got  it."  Harvey  looked  from  one  of  us 
to  the  other.  "Even  if  Baird  didn't  care  for  the  boy — 
and  I  can't  believe  that — he'll  use  him  as  a  weapon  to  en- 
force you." 

I  reached  for  the  small  hand  that  fumbled  at  my  dress. 

"He  can  take  his  son  away,  and  exercise  the  parental 
right  of  castigation  unmolested  if  you,  without  a  divorce 
and  a  legal  status,  refuse  to  go  back  and  live  with  him — 
and  you  say  you  never  will  go  back." 

I  stood  silent.  Since  I  made  the  first  plunge  and  got 
away  I  had  worried  very  little  over  Oliver.  I  thought  I 
knew  about  what  could  be  expected  of  him.  But  wasn't 
I  liable  to  be  entirely  mistaken  ?  Mightn't  an  outsider — 
a  lawyer — coming  to  the  case  afresh,  form  a  much  clearer 
estimate  of  it  than  I,  who  had  been  down  under  the  tor- 
ment of  it  for  years? 

"I  don't  know  what  to  do,"  I  whispered.  "I  haven't 
any  money  to  get  a  divorce." 

"I'll  get  it  for  you.  I  don't  want  a  cent — nor  a  dollar 
of  your  money."  Harvey  was  explicit.  "And  I'll  get  you 
full  control  of  your  son." 

Relief  and  gratitude  boiled  up  in  me. 

"Oh,  Harvey !"  I  put  both  hands  out.  "How  kind  you 
are !  If  you  can  really  do  that ' 

"Do  it?"  He  had  the  hands  in  his.  I  realised  I  had 
been  over-impulsive.  "Of  course  I  can  do  it.  It  doesn't 


86  THE  STRAIGHT  HOAD 

make  any  difference  what  kind  of  a  case  you've  got,  the 
right  lawyer  can  always  get  your  decree ;  and  I'll  go  my 
length  for  you,  Calla." 

The  desk  'phone  rang  again,  loud  and  long.  I  caught 
up  Boy's  hat,  and  we  started  for  the  door.  He  halted  me 
with  a  gesture,  then  spoke  into  the  receiver. 

"Well  ?"  and,  after  listening  a  moment,  "Tell  you  what 
— I'll  call  you  up  in  half  an  hour.  Will  that  do?  All 
right."  He  turned  to  me.  "Calla,  I  am  confoundedly  busy 
now,  but  I'd  like  to  come  around  and  have  a  good,  old- 
fashioned  talk  this  evening.  That's  all  right,  isn't  it? 
Make  it  before  J.  B.'s  bedtime,  if  you  like." 

"But  I  don't  know  where  I'll  be,  Harvey,"  I  said. 
"I've  got  to  go  now  and  get  a  boarding  place  where  I  can 
have  Boy  with  me." 

"Oh — I  forgot  that  point.  Say — Calla "  he  got  up 

and  moved  toward  me,  his  face  brightening — "why  not 
let  the  kid  come  out  and  visit  me  for  a  while?" 

"Why,"  I  hesitated,  "he  isn't  old  enough  to  stay  in  that 
big,  empty  house  by  himself." 

"Huh,  I'm  ain't  scared,"  Boyce  remarked,  and  Harvey 
argued : 

"The  house  doesn't  have  to  be  empty.  I'll  get  the  cook 
in  to  start  things  up,  if  you'll  let  me  have  J.  B." 

It  was  rather  pathetic — a  borrowed  child. 

"I  guess  we  can't,  Harvey,"  I  said.  "He's  never  been 
separated  from  me  over  night  in  his  life." 

"Now,  don't  make  a  sissy  of  him.  He's  a  sure-enough 
boy.  I  tell  you,  Calla,  it's  the  very  thing.  Listen  here 
while  I  fix  it." 

He  strode  back  to  the  desk,  seated  himself,  took  up  the 
'phone  and  called  a  number. 

"No,  don't  do  that,  Harvey,"  I  objected.  "I'll  see  to 
it  myself.  I'll  make  some  arrangement.  We  must  go 
now.  Come  on,  Boy." 

He  shook  a  hand  at  me. 


HARVEY  WATKINS  87 

<rWait.  I'm  calling  Mrs.  Eccles  at  my  house  out  at 
Las  Reudas — the  woman  we  leave  the  place  with " 

"Yes,  and  your  dog,"  I  laughed.  "We  saw  her  yes- 
terday. But  this  is  different." 

"Sit  down — Calla."  He  had  got  his  connection,  and  be- 
gan to  speak  into  the  'phone.  I  stood  there  and  heard  him 
trying  to  arrange  for  the  woman  at  the  other  end  of  the 
line  to  keep  his  house  for  a  while,  and  take  care  of  a  four- 
year-old  boy  there.  "No?"  he  said,  finally.  "Can't  do 
it?  Well,  then,  would  you  board  the  boy  at  your  own 
house — just  for  the  present  ?  It  would  be  a  great  accom- 
modation. Oh,  certainly — that's  not  too  much.  I'll  settle 
these  points  when  I  see  you." 

He  hunched  a  protesting  shoulder  at  me,  putting  his 
hand  over  the  instrument  and  turning  to  say,  "Be  still  a 
minute,  Calla.  I'm  tending  to  this,"  and  concluded  his 
negotiations  with:  "All  right,  then.  We'll  be  there  some 
time  late  this  evening  and  leave  the  boy  with  you." 

"Oh,  Harvey,  why  didn't  you  let  me  stop  you  ?"  I  broke 
out  the  moment  he  hung  up  the  'phone.  "I  know  you 
mean  to  be  kind,  but — I  don't  see  how  I  can  let  Boy  go." 

"Calla,  that's  no  way  to  talk.  You're  not  letting  him 
go." 

Yet  I  wouldn't  give  up.  He  wrangled;  the  desk  tele- 
phone shrilled  again  and  again ;  the  elderly  clerk  came  to 
the  door  and  was  put  off  with  an  irritable,  "Get  out,  Bates ! 
Don't  interrupt  me  now."  And  all  the  while  Boy,  stirred 
up  to  it  by  Harvey,  was  clamouring  that  he  wanted  to  go 
live  at  the  house  where  the  doggie  was. 

I  was  bound  to  be  beaten — why  not  ? — arguing  with  a 
lawyer.  But  the  more  Harvey  insisted,  the  more  stub- 
bornly I  refused  to  make  a  positive  promise  till  five 
o'clock,  when  he  would  be  at  liberty,  and,  as  he  said,  ready 
to  take  the  boy  out  with  him. 

I  got  away  from  that  building  as  though  it  had  been 
afire.  "Hush,  Boy !"  I  said,  almost  fiercely,  when  he  be- 


88  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

gan  again  about  the  doggie  out  at  the  man's  house.  It 
was  seven  hours  till  half  past  five  o'clock — strange  if  I 
couldn't,  in  all  that  time,  find  among  the  thousands  of 
people  in  this  town  something  to  do,  some  place  to  go,  so 
that  I  could  .keep  my  son  with  me.  I  was  young  and 
strong;  I  was  not  without  abilities;  and  I  was  keen  to 
hurl  the  whole  of  me  into  the  attempt. 

I  couldn't  just  go  up  to  people  on  the  street  and  ask  for 
work,  so  I  made  a  list  of  the  employment  agencies,  and 
visited  them  one  after  the  other.  At  most  of  them — I 
might  have  known  it  would  be  so  at  this  time  of  year — 
the  regular  business  was  almost  lost  sight  of  in  the  signing 
up  of  hop  pickers.  It  was  work  I  knew  well ;  they  used  to 
grow  hops  profitably  up  around  Stanleyton ;  I  had  picked 
there  once  or  twice,  with  other  girls,  when  I  was  just  a 
big  child.  Later,  the  farmers  around  Meaghers  attempted 
the  crop,  not  very  successfully;  Oliver  himself  was  nurs- 
ing along  a  small  field.  I  knew  the  toil  in  the  burning 
heat,  with  the  heavy,  drowsy  odour  of  the  hops  in  your 
nostrils.  Even  if  Boy  and  I  could  have  stood  it,  it  was  a 
temporary  expedient,  and  would  take  me  away  from  town, 
where  my  real  chance  lay.  No — it  wouldn't  answer. 

"It  wouldn't  suit  me,"  I  said  to  the  woman  in  charge. 
"Have  you  nothing  else,  that  would  permit  me  to  have 
the  child  with  me?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"This  is  all,"  she  said.  "But  at  this  you'll  have  steady 
employment  in  the  open  air,  and  at  good  pay,  for  six  weeks 
— every  member  of  the  family." 

"No,"  I  repeated,  and  every  member  of  my  family 
walked  out  of  the  place  hand  in  hand. 

After  all,  why  go  into  details  concerning  that  miserable 
day?  God,  who  is  its  author,  may  be  favourable  to 
motherhood,  but  it  took  me  less  than  two  hours  to  find  out 
that  a  civilised  community  has  but  one  niche  for  mother 
and  child — the  home,  with  a  husband  and  father  to  fend 


HARVEY  WATKINS  89 

for  them.  Everywhere  I  applied  I  was  made  to  feel  that 
Boyce  was  a  folly,  if  not  a  crime;  the  sort  of  luxury  a 
rich  woman  may  indulge  in,  but  for  poor  me  little  less 
than  a  piece  of  impudence. 

Yet  I  brought  some  bits  of  worth-while  knowledge  out 
of  my  losing  fight.  If  you  go  into  an  employment  agency 
and  ask  for  "anything"  to  do,  you  will  get  nothing.  Even 
without  a  child,  I  was  fitted  for  no  regular  wage-earning 
position.  With  him,  it  must  indeed  be  something  special, 
something  out  of  the  common,  which  it  takes  time  to  find 
and  fit  into.  And  time  was  what  I  did  not  have.  Work- 
ing housekeeper  meant  a  position  in  some  labouring  man's 
home  to  fill  the  place  of  the  wife  who  had  been  her  own 
servant.  Even  so,  I  found  but  one  such  open;  and  the 
woman  at  the  employment  agency,  after  looking  me  up 
and  down,  refused  to  consider  me,  objecting :  "It's  a  hard 
place,  with  a  mess  of  little  children.  But  that  ain't  the 
worst.  I  sent  one  young  woman  there — a  nice-looking 
girl — and  she  complained.  I'll  not  send  him  another." 

Though  it  was  failure  all  along  the  line,  there  was  one 
kind  thing  that  cruel  experience  did  for  me ;  it  shed  light 
on,  what  happened  to  spoiled,  high-spirited,  twenty-year- 
old  Philip  when  his  parents  sent  him  unprepared  to  San 
Francisco  to  get  a  position  that  would  support  a  wife. 
The  keenest  edge  on  my  suffering  then  had  been  the  belief 
that  he  had  not  really  tried ;  that  he  had  not  cared  enough 
to  make  a  genuine  effort.  To-day,  as  attempt  after  at- 
tempt of  mine  seemed  to  bring  me  only  humiliation  added 
to  defeat,  my  heart  went  out  to  my  poor  boy  lover  who 
had  been  through  it  all  before  me.  The  old  bitterness  was 
clean  washed  away. 

Boy's  soft  little  feet  were  punished  by  the  city  pave- 
ments ;  his  short  legs  grew  so  tired.  Before  I  got  back  to 
the  Cronin  Building  at  half  past  five  o'clock,  I  had  sat 
with  him  to  rest  on  the  bench  of  more  than  one  employ- 
ment agency,  and  even  carried  him  at  the  last.  For  the 


90  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

time  at  least  I  was  done.  I  could  see  my  way  no  further ; 
I  was  glad  and  thankful  that  there  was  a  safe  place  for 
him,  where  he  would  be  welcomed  and  made  much  of. 

Harvey  didn't  crow  over  me.  He  was  only  nervous 
for  fear  I  should  back  out  a't  the  last  minute.  He  kept 
hurrying  me,  as  though  he  didn't  want  to  give  me  time  to 
change  my  mind. 

"You  know  Boy's  got  no  clothes  except  what  I  brought 
in  my  suit-case,  Harvey,"  I  sighed.  "My  trunk  hasn't 
come  yet." 

"Anything  the  matter  with  my  going  and  getting  what 
he  needs?"  Harvey  suggested.  "I  always  did  want  to 
buy  boys'  clothes." 

"Oh,  no,"  I  said,  hastily,  "you  mustn't  do  that.  He 
can  wear  what  he  has  here — till  the  trunk  comes." 

"All  right,"  he  agreed,  and  we  went  down  to  his  waiting 
car.  Harvey  got  in  and  took  the  wheel,  Boyce,  mute  with 
interest,  beside  him.  He  turned  to  me.  "You  go  up  to 
the  Poinsettia  and  pack  his  things.  J.  B.  and  I'll  drive 
around  town  a  little  and  then  pick  you  up  at  that  drug 
store  on  the  corner  of  Arbolado  and  Thirty-ninth."  He 
leaned  closer  to  add:  "!N"o  need  to  set  all  the  old  hens 
cackling  by  taking  the  machine  down  in  front  of  the 
house." 

This  was  probably  only  good  common  sense,  but  some 
how  it  grated  on  me.     I  stopped,  undecided,  on  the  run- 
ning-board, fumbling  in  the  child's  pocket  to  make  sure 
he  had  a  handkerchief. 

"Go  along,  Calla.  J.  B.  won't  miss  you."  Harvey's 
hand  on  the  steering  wheel  twitched. 

I  looked  helplessly  at  the  two  there  in  the  auto.  I  was 
already  an  outsider.  Harvey  grinned  at  me  with  a  full 
comprehension  of  his  advantage.  He  might  be  dull  about 
some  things,  but  this  he  understood.  I  was  sure  that  in- 
stinct told  him  what  a  hold  on  a  child's  fancy  it  gives  one 
to  buy  clothes  for  it. 


HARVEY  WATKINS  91 

When  I  got  to  the  Poinsettia  I  was  surprised  to  find  my 
trunk  in  the  front  hallway.  Well,  anyhow,  Boy  could 
have  his  own  things  now.  The  trunk  had  already  made 
trouble;  Mrs.  Thrasher  stood  over  it  talking  loud  to  a 
straight,  well-dressed  young  fellow  whose  back  was  to  me, 
but  who  turned  at  the  sound  of  the  door — and  there  was 
Joe  Ed's  lovable,  quizzical,  devil-may-care  countenance. 
My  heart  jumped;  he'd  have  to  have  his  room — where 
should  I  stay  to-night? 

He  came  up  to  me  quickly.  I  felt  sorry  and  ashamed 
about  last  night — as  though  I  had  spied.  I  tried  not  to 
think,  as  I  looked  at  Joe  Ed,  so  attractive  in  his  fresh  grey 
suit,  what  had  hurried  him  back  ahead  of  time,  or  that 
there  was  plenty  of  explanation  for  the  act  of  that  poor, 
foolish,  sulky  servant  girl. 

"Here's  the  lady  now,"  said  Joe  Ed,  in  that  soft  Vir- 
ginia drawl  of  his,  advancing  with  outstretched  hand. 
"Howdy,  Mrs.  Baird,"  speaking  exactly  as  though  we  had 
been  alone  and  there  were  no  row  going  on.  "Where  do 
you  want  your  trunk  ?" 

"It  isn't  a  question  of  where  she  wants  it,"  Mrs. 
Thrasher  cut  in.  "But  if  she's  got  other  lodgings  and  is 
leaving,  she  surely  will  not  expect  her  trunk  to  be  carried 
upstairs — and  then  down  again.  Every  trunk  that  is  car- 
ried up  the  stairs  is  just  so  much  injury  to  the  house.  The 
last  one  that  went  up  scraped  that  place  by  the  banis- 
ter  

I  paid  no  attention  to  her  as  I  shook  hands  with  Joe 
Ed,  hesitating: 

"I  thought  you  were  off  on  your  vacation." 

He  grinned  a  little  sheepishly  and  explained: 

"I  found  I  might  just  as  well  go  back  and  get  your 
trunk  for  you." 

"Oh,  you  oughtn't  to  have  done  that,"  I  said,  gratefully. 
"Though  I  am  glad  to  have  it  sooner.  You'll  want  your 


92  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

room  now."  I  tried  to  speak  easily,  but  my  tone  was 
anxious. 

"Why,  no."  Joe  Ed  didn't  look  at  me.  "I'm  going 
right  back  this  evening — going  on  to  Santa  Cruz  this  time, 
sure  enough.  And  say" — he  lowered  his  voice — "stay  here 
as  long  as  it  suits  you.  When  I  conie  back  I'm  going  to 
bunk  with  a  fellow  down  nearer  the  station — for  a  while." 

I  knew  better  than  I  had  the  day  before  how  valuable 
his  offering  was — not  merely  a  stopping  place,  but  the 
guaranteed  respectability  of  the  Poinsettia  behind  me. 

"I'll  be  glad  to  stay — for  a  while,"  I  agreed. 

"Stay !"  echoed  Mrs.  Thrasher,  listening  shamelessly.  "I 
thought  we  settled  the  matter  of  the  little  boy  last  night." 

"It's  settled ;  I've  only  come  for  his  clothes,"  I  told  her ; 
then  spoke  to  Joe  Ed,  who  stood  by  waiting  to  do  anything 
I  wanted  of  him. 

"While  I  run  up  and  get  the  key,  would  you  mind  pull- 
ing my  trunk  over  to  the  side  of  the  stairs  so  I  can  open 
it  and  get  Boyce's  things  out  ?" 

It  had  been  nearly  nine  hours  since  I  passed  through 
the  door  of  that  room.  I  tumbled  my  own  things  out  of 
the  suit-case,  tossed  in  the  few  of  Boy's  that  were  upstairs, 
and  then  turned  for  the  last  putting-to-rights  look  in  my 
glass.  I  caught  up  my  one  white  silk  scarf,  drew  it  over 
my  small  hat,  knotting  it  at  each  ear  and  tying  it  under 
the  chin.  Then  I  went  down  to  find  Joe  Ed  undoing  the 
trunk  straps  and  snaps  for  me.  He  stood  close  a  moment 
as  I  bent  for  the  unlocking  and  looked  sidewise  at  me. 

"They  tell  me  you  had  a  merry,  merry  time  here  last 
night  over  the  kid,"  he  said  in  an  undertone. 

"Yes,"  fitting  my  key  in  and  turning  it. 

"Well — you're  going  to  stay  a  while,  anyhow." 

He  seemed  a  little  uneasy  at  lingering  while  I  might 
wish  to  open  up  the  trunk,  yet  he  was  plainly  so  anxious 
to  be  reassured  that  I  said  heartily: 


HARVEY  WATKINS  93 

"Oh,  yes — I'm  only  too  thankful  to  stay  till  I  can  find 
a  suitable  place  where  I  can  have  Boy  with  me." 

He  looked  relieved  and  strolled  toward  the  front  door, 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  whistling  under  his  breath. 
\raguely  I  noted  something  familiar  about  the  little  musi- 
cal phrase  he  repeated  over  and  over;  and  then  forgot  it 
in  getting  out  Boy's  clothes. 

Mrs.  Thrasher  had  not  Joe  Ed's  delicacy.  She  came 
right  up  and  watched  me  like  a  customs  inspector. 

"You,  yourself,  are  going  to  stay  a  while,  then  ?" 

"Why,  cert,  Your  Highness,"  Joe  Ed  spoke  softly  over 
his  shoulder.  "She  couldn't  get  away  from  a  house  that 
had  you  in  it.  Don't  I  just  pine  for  a  sight  of  you  when 
I'm  out  on  my  run?  Ain't  that  what  brought  me  back 
here  right  at  the  beginning  of  my  vacation  ?" 

An  incredible,  silly  half-smile  relaxed  the  line  of  Mrs. 
Thrasher's  iron  jaw. 

"Get  along  with  you,"  she  said.  "You  came  to  bring 
another  woman's  trunk.  You  can't  pull  the  wool  over  my 
eyes,  Joe." 

I  didn't  hurry  myself;  I  got  out  everything  I  wanted, 
and  packed  the  suit-case  neatly.  Mrs.  Thrasher  stayed  by 
me  through  the  operation,  and  Miss  Creevey  came  to  join 
her  before  it  was  done.  At  the  front  Joe  Ed  lounged  in 
the  vestibule,  still  whistling.  When  I  came  out  he  took 
the  suit-case  from  my  hand  as  though  it  had  been  what  he 
was  waiting  for.  Mrs.  Thrasher,  following,  watched  us 
leave  the  house  together. 

We  passed  an  express  wagon  drawn  up  before  that  won- 
derful leafy  tunnel  at  whose  entrance  I  had  seen  the  ten- 
ant of  the  back  bungalow  that  morning.  The  driver  was 
unloading  a  large  box  labeled  "Books." 

"Seen  the  Big  Noise  yet  ?"  asked  Joe  Ed,  evidently  for 
the  purpose  of  making  conversation. 

"Do  you  mean  the  man  who  lives  in  the  bungalow  ?" 

"Yes.    Frank  Hollis  Dale.    Look  at  it  there  on  the  box. 


94  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

Mark  it  well.  Funny  as  a  crutch  to  see  those  dames  back 
at  the  house  run  after  him  and  get  left — and  him  a-stand- 
ing  still  all  the  time." 

"The  name  sounds  familiar,  but " 

"Don't  talk  that  way  in  San  Vicente."  Joe  Ed  shook 
his  head  at  me.  "The  town's  so  proud  of  having  the  Real 
Thing  in  it  that  it  believes  everybody  ought  to  know  all 
about  him.  You  remember  his  being  in  the  magazines  so 
long  when  they  thought  he  was  lost  in  Central  America 
and  sent  a  searching  party  after  him.  That's  where  he 
got  his  health  broken  down ;  he's  come  to  California  to  re- 
cuperate— lectures  at  the  college  here — and  every  woman 
in  town  that  thinks  she  .thinks  a  thought  is  after  him  to 
come  to  her  pink  teas." 

We  were  getting  pretty  close  to  the  corner;  I  began  to 
feel  a  little  awkward. 

"There's  a  reason,"  I  blundered,  "why  I  don't  want  you 
to  come  any  further  with  me." 

"Just  as  you  say,  lady,"  he  agreed  amiably.  "But 
where  do  I  take  the  suit-case  then?" 

"Just  give  it  to  me,"  I  said,  and  reached  out  for  the 
suit-case.  "I  can  carry  it.  It  isn't  very  far." 

He  refused  with  a  motion.  Stepping  nonchalantly 
along,  he  glanced  sidelong  at  me  and  began  whistling  again 
under  his  breath  the  same  phrase  that  had  caught  my  at- 
tention back  there  at  the  Poinsettia.  As  our  eyes  met  I 
recognised  that  it  was  from  the  thing  they  tried  to  make 
the  State  song,  and  carried  the  words,  "I  love  you,  Cali- 
fornia." 

"Nobody  could  help  it,"  he  whispered,  laughingly,  when 
he  saw  by  my  startled  glance  that  I  had  got  the  hint. 
"That  little  old  white  veil  just  puts  the  finishing  touch. 
Makes  you  look  like  the  Light  of  the  Harem,  sure  enough." 

"Thank  you,"  I  laughed  back.  "A  woman  needs  a  com- 
pliment now  and  then — even  if  it  is  only  the  approval  of 
a  small  boy,  it  does  her  good." 


HARVEY  WATKINS  95 

"You're  welcome,"  nodding,  unruffled.  "I've  got  a  lot 
more  any  time  you  have  use  for  one  in  your  business.  By 
the  way,  where  is  your  sure-enough  small  boy  ?" 

There  was  no  need  to  answer.  At  the  moment  Boyce, 
sitting  in  Harvey's  auto,  drawn  up  to  the  curb  on  the  side 
street,  caught  sight  of  us  through  the  plate-glass  windows 
of  the  corner. 

"Muvver!  Muvver!"  he  called.  "Did  you  bring  my 
bud'n?" 

There  stood  the  car  and  Harvey  with  my  son,  evidently 
waiting  for  me  discreetly — out  of  sight — by  appointment. 
There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  go  ahead  then,  and  of 
course  the  two  men  must  be  introduced.  I  hastily  re- 
minded Joe  Ed  that  this  was  the  Mr.  Watkins  I  had 
spoken  of,  and  that  Boy  was  going  to  stay  out  at  Las  Reu- 
das  for  a  while.  Here  it  was  that  Joe  Ed's  breeding 
showed.  Apparently  he  was  not  in  the  least  surprised  at 
our  arrangements,  though  I  instinctively  knew  that  any 
car  he  drove  would  have  come  up  to  my  door  for  me 
openly,  though  that  door  had  been  the  front  entrance  of 
the  infernal  regions  themselves.  He  put  the  suit-case  into 
the  tonneau,  lifted  his  hat  and  took  himself  off  like  the 
young  Virginia  gentleman  that  he  was. 

"Who's  that  ?"  Harvey  demanded  as  soon  as  his  back 
was  turned. 

"The  boy  I  told  you  of  that  I  met  on  the  train."  I  was 
getting  into  the  front  seat,  taking  Boy  on  my  lap.  "The 
son  of  Mrs.  Tipton  who  keeps  the  Poinsettia." 

"I  thought  you  said  he  was  going  on  to  Santa  Cruz." 

"He  was,  but  he  came  back  to — to " 

"Well  ?" 

"He  came  back  to  bring  my  trunk.  It  had  just  got 
there.  I  was  awfully  glad,  for  it  gave  me  a  chance  to  get 
all  of  Boyce's  clothes  together.  I  hope  you  didn't  buy 
anything  for  him.  He  doesn't  need  it." 


96  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

Harvey  had  started  the  car.  We  ran  a  block  or  two, 
then  he  turned  to  say,  dryly : 

"Never  you  mind  what  we  bought,  Calla.  I  want  to 
get  it  clear  in  my  mind  about  this  young  man." 

"There's  nothing  to  get  clear,"  I  said,  irritably.  "He 
was  the  brakeman  on  the  train,  and  he's  offered  me  his 
room — temporarily." 

"For  two  weeks,"  supplied  Harvey,  and  guided  the  car 
into  a  broad,  tree-lined,  quiet  street. 

"Well,"  I  hesitated,  "he  says  now  that  I  can  have  it  as 
long  as  I  want  to  keep  it " 

"Heh,"  said  Harvey,  and  speeded  up.  "I'll  keep  J.  B. 
for  you  as  long  as  you  want  to  stay  there." 


CHAPTER  VI 

AT    THE   ROADHOUSE 

WHEN  it  came  to  parting  with  Boy  I  was  ashamed  of 
the  scene  I  made.  The  youngster  himself  was  all 
taken  up  with  the  ducks  and  the  garden,  swaggering  about, 
Fairy  at  his  heels,  glorious  in  the  belief  that  he  owned  her 
now,  as  well  as  the  house  and  Mrs.  Eccles. 

She  stood  looking  on  while  I  knelt  where  I  had  snatched 
Boyce  just  by  the  door  for  a  last  good-bye,  Harvey  waiting 
halfway  down  the  path  with  his  back  to  me,  the  motor  at 
the  gate.  Everything  had  been  said.  I  saw  she  was  used 
to  children,  and  would  be  entirely  competent  with  him. 
But  the  more  suitable  and  reasonable  the  arrangement 
seemed,  the  worse  it  hurt  me.  I  hugged  the  little  soft, 
limber  body  to  me  in  a  way  that  I  knew  Boyce  hated.  He 
was  unusually  forbearing,  though  he  kept  wiping  off  my 
kisses  and  saying: 

"Well,  good-bye,  then.    Good-bye,  Muvver." 

"I  wouldn't  get  him  all  worked  up  if  I  was  you,"  Mrs. 
Eccles  remonstrated.  "He  won't  sleep."  And  Harvey 
called : 

"Come  on,  Calla.  J.  B.'s  all  right.  He's  a  man.  He 
doesn't  care  which  woman  darns  his  socks.  Come  on." 

I  hated  him  for  the  speech,  but  it  stung  me  into  allow- 
ing one  of  Boy's  "good-byes"  to  stand  as  final.  I  tore  my- 
self away,  jumped  up  and  ran,  pulling  down  my  veil  as  I 
went,  jostling  against  Harvey,  passing  him,  blundering 
into  the  auto  ahead. 

I  got  into  the  front  seat  because  I  had  ridden  there  on 
the  way  out.  It  never  occurred  to  me — till  Harvey  was 
climbing  past  into  the  driver's  place — that  I  ought  to  have 

97 


98  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

offered  to  go  back  to  town  on  the  street  car.  I  said  so,  and 
he  answered  promptly : 

"Certainly  not.  I  don't  know  how  it  is  with  you,  but 
I've  got  to  have  some  dinner." 

"I  couldn't  eat,"  I  mumbled. 

"Well,  come  along  and  see  me  eat,  then,"  and  he  started 
the  machine. 

In  the  car,  with  its  lighted  lamps,  everything  about 
seemed  dark,  as  though  night  had  suddenly  come.  Slid- 
ing along  in  that  tunnel  of  brightness  that  went  ahead  of 
us,  I  wondered  helplessly  at  myself  that  I  had  ever  agreed 
to  the  arrangement  which  separated  me  from  Boyce.  Why, 
that  was  what  all  the  effort  and  agony  had  been  for — that 
I  should  take  the  child  away  from  Oliver,  who  was  unfit, 
and  have  a  chance  to  be  the  right  kind  of  mother  to  him. 
Only  that,  it  had  long  seemed,  could  restore  my  self-re- 
spect. And  here,  at  the  first  touch  of  difficulty — and 
partly  to  please  Harvey,  who  knew  nothing  of  the  real 
me  and  her  aims — I  had  given  the  child  up.  Tempo- 
rarily ?  At  the  moment  our  separation  seemed  eternal. 

"Crying?"  Harvey  turned  and  tried  to  peer  through 
my  veil ;  then,  as  he'got  the  little  catching  of  an  indrawn 
breath,  he  added  softly,  "Dear." 

"No."  I  paid  no  attention  to  the  familiarity.  He 
might  have  called  me  "dear"  or  damned  me  then — I  was 
indifferent. 

"I'll  bet  you  are." 

"I'm  not." 

"Why  don't  you  put  up  your  veil,  then  ?" 

I  laid  the  veil  back,  saying,  as  best  I  could : 

"I  oughtn't  to  have  left  the  child.    I  know  it  now." 

"It  was  the  only  sensible  thing  to  do,"  Harvey  declared. 
"When  you've  had  a  good  dinner  you'll  see  it  that  way, 
too." 

"Dinner — oh,  just  take  me  home,  and  then  go  and  get 
your  own,"  I  said,  nervelessly. 


AT  THE  ROADHOUSE  99 

"It'll  be  pretty  late  by  the  time  we  get  back  to  town," 
he  objected. 

"I'm  sorry.     What  do  you  want  to  do  ?" 

"Why — er — there's  a  place  on  the  way  where  we  could 
get  a  mighty  good  dinner — the  best  crab  Louis  you  ever 
nto."  He  hesitated  oddly.  "Would  you  mind  going 
there?" 

"Why  should  I  ?" 

"Well,  it's  a — of  course  it's  perfectly  respectable — but 
it's  a  roadhouse.  Still,  nobody'll  know  us.  We  can  have 
a  private  room." 

"I  suppose  I'd  better.  I'll  need  a  cup  of  tea  and  some 
little  thing." 

It  was  a  very  quiet  place,  secluded,  almost  sly  looking, 
behind  its  latticed  front  fence  with  a  tall  gate.  We  had 
the  private  room  that  Harvey  had  suggested,  and  he  or- 
dered lavishly. 

"Never  mind  about  the  toast  and  tea,"  he  said.  "Wait 
till  you  see  what  the  boy  brings." 

When  the  dinner  came  I  realised  my  hunger,  and  ate 
with  appetite.  As  always,  the  good  hot  food  began  to  put 
heart  into  me.  I  found  courage  to  look  forward;  I  re- 
membered the  one  helpful  suggestion  made  me  that  morn- 
ing. The  woman  at  the  Y.  W.  C.  A.  employment  agency 
had  asked  why  I  didn't  take  a  few  months  at  a  business 
college,  and  fit  myself  for  an  office  position.  I  turned  this 
over  in  my  mind  now,  watching  Harvey,  glad  to  see  him 
enjoying  his  dinner;  glad  enough  that  he'd  had  his  own 
way  about  that  visit  from  Boy — it  was  mean  of  me  to 
grudge  him  the  child.  It  seemed  we  had  travelled  some 
distance  on  the  friendly  road  since  morning,  when  I  had 
seen  in  him  only  a  stranger  with  the  name  of  the  man  I 
once  knew.  I  marked  little  characteristics  remaining 
which  had  been  familiar  to  me  in  Stanleyton,  and,  whether 
I  had  then  liked  them  or  not,  they  now  appealed  to  me 
simply  because  they  were  of  old  standing. 


100  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

There's  something  queer  in  the  effect  of  long  associa- 
tion. It  isn't  a  question  of  affection,  or  even  of  the  most 
ordinary  liking.  It's  just  familiarity.  We  simply  do  not 
see  the  faults  or  failings  we  have  so  many  times  over- 
looked. I  had  never  cared  for  Harvey  Watkins,  yet  now 
Harvey,  helping  my  plate,  watchful  to  keep  me  supplied 
with  everything,  dealing  competently  with  the  waiter, 
finally  piling  a  little  heap  of  coins  on  the  cloth  beside  the 
dinner  check,  evidently  ready  for  his  settlement,  was  a 
known  quantity  and  a  fairly  agreeable  companion.  After 
all,  this  was  Harvey — not  just  anybody  I  had  chanced  to 
meet  coming  to  the  new  town.  When  he  got  as  far  as  his 
coffee — my  dinner  had  been  done  some  time — I  laid  the 
Y.  W.  C.  A.  woman's  suggestion  before  him. 

"Sounds  good  to  me,"  he  said.  "The  Phipps  business 
college  is  on  the  top  floor  of  the  Cronin  Building.  Sup- 
pose you  go  there  to-morrow  morning  and  talk  to  Pop 
Phipps  about  it.  I'd  stand  for  your  expenses." 

Without  looking,  he  fingered  a  coin  away  from  that  lit- 
tle pile  on  the  cloth  and  pushed  it  forward  till  it  lay  di- 
rectly between  us — a  five-dollar  gold  piece. 

"I  took  typing  and  stenography  a  few  months  in  my  last 
high  school  year,"  I  said  hurriedly.  "And  they  have 
night  classes  there  at  the  Y.  W.  C.  A.  Don't  you  think  I 
could  brush  up  sufficiently  that  way  ?" 

"Too  slow.    You'd  break  yourself  down  at  it." 

"Well,"  I  felt  my  face  reddening;  I  was  acutely  con- 
scious of  that  gold  piece  on  the  table,  "she  did  say  that 
some  of  them  borrowed  the  money  for  a  business  course, 
and  paid  after  they  got  a  position.  I  shouldn't  dare  do 
that  unless  I  was  sure  of  a  place  beforehand." 

"That's  what  I'm  figuring  on,"  said  Harvey,  cutting 
cheese  in  little  strips  and  laying  it  with  a  water  cracker. 
"We've  been  chewing  the  rag  for  six  months  there  in  the 
office  about  a  private  secretary  for  me — somebody  not  con- 
cerned with  any  other  member  of  the  firm." 


AT  THE  ROADHOUSE  101 

"You're  really  going  to  have  one  ?"  I  demanded.  "Can 
you  hold  the  position  for  me  till  I'm  ready  ?" 

"The  position's  yours — nobody  else's,"  Harvey  nodded. 
"As  it  stands  now,  Bates  hammers  out  the  briefs  and  the 
correspondence  on  that  darned  old  threshing  machine  they 
call  a  typewriter,  and  they're  a  disgrace  to  the  firm.  But 
the  main  point  is  that  any  lawyer  handling  the  sort  of  work 
I  do — the  McBrides  have  shoved  all  their  dirty  jobs  off 
on  me  from  the  first — has  got  to  have  a  private  secretary 
that  he  can  trust.  That's  what's  needed  more  than  stenog- 
raphy. You  can  get  enough  shorthand  inside  of  three 
months.  Better  put  that  out  of  sight — the  waiter's  com- 
ing. He  might  take  it  for  his  tip." 

"I'll  pay  just  as  soon  as  I  can,"  I  said,  huskily,  cover- 
ing the  coin. 

"Needn't  hurry  yourself."  Harvey  grinned  a  little. 
"There's  no  interest  charged  on  that  sort  of  debt.  Pay 
when  you  get  ready — or  never  pay.  Maybe  I'll  see  a  way 
to  square  it  for  you  in  some  item  of  the  office  expenses." 

The  waiter  came  and  went.  I  sat  pushing  the  coin 
about  under  an  uncertain  palm.  It  seemed  to  me  I 
couldn't  pick  it  up. 

"Maybe  I  could  get  a  place  to  work  for  my  board,"  I 
said,  finally. 

"You'll  get  on  faster  at  the  college  if  you  give  your  time 
and  energy  to  it.  The  tuition  and  expenses  together  won't 
amount  to  much.  I'd  advance  the  expense  money  person- 
ally, you  see." 

The  coin  under  my  hand  got  some  reasonable  colour 
with  this,  and  I  picked  it  up,  held  it  a  moment,  turning 
it  over,  then  dropped  it  into  my  pocket. 

"Oh,"  I  said,  "I'm  sure  I  could  live  on  three  or  four 
dollars  a  week." 

Harvey  shook  his  head. 

"You'll  need  about  ten." 


102  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

"Not  so  much "  I  was  beginning  when  he  inter- 
rupted me: 

"Well,  split  the  difference,"  and  added  in  another  tone : 
"That  white  scarf  thing's  very  becoming."  I  glanced 
over  to  find  him  looking  steadily  at  me.  As  our  eyes  met 
he  smiled.  "But  I  like  to  see  your  hair — I  always  remem- 
ber you  with  a  lot  of  curls  hanging  down  your  back — the 
prettiest  little  schoolgirl  that  ever  kept  all  the  boys  guess- 
ing." 

"I  might  have  taken  my  hat  off  for  dinner,"  I  said. 
"It's  too  late  now.  What  time  is  it?  Oughtn't  I  to  be 
getting  back  to  the  Poinsettia  ?" 

Harvey  looked  at  his  watch,  and  snapped  it  shut  with- 
out telling  me  the  hour. 

"That's  all  right,"  he  said.  "But  while  we're  here  alone 
and  have  the  chance,  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  your  di- 
vorce case.  It'll  take  three  months  to  acquire  residence 
in  the  county.  Meantime  we  don't  want  to  slip  up  on  any- 
thing. I've  got  to  have  the  facts,  so  I  can  be  ready  to  meet 
any  movement  of  Baird's." 

I  sat  silent,  rolling  some  crumbs  on  the  cloth.  I  suppose 
I  looked  uncomfortable.  There  was  a  flicker  of  curiosity 
in  his  eyes.  Speech,  at  the  moment,  was  beyond  me. 

"Don't  be  squeamish,"  he  encouraged.  "You  know, 
Calla,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  real  grounds  are  not  gener- 
ally the  ones  on  which  the  decree  is  obtained.  A  lawyer 
shields  his  client — but  he's  got  to  have  the  facts." 

He  paused  expectantly.  I  had  a  queer  feeling,  as 
though  my  circulation  were  shifting  the  blood  all  away 
from  my  head  and  to  my  pounding  heart.  Then,  in  an- 
other instant,  it  all  went  there,  making  my  cheeks  burn 
and  the  big  arteries  in  my  neck  throb. 

"You  needn't  mind  me,"  Harvey  gave  me  another  lift. 

"What  do  you  want  to  know  ?"  I  breathed. 

He  leaned  forward.  His  eyes  looked  into  mine  in  such 
a  way  that  I  felt  suddenly  exposed,  shamed. 


AT  THE  ROADHOUSE  103 

"Say,  Calla,  have  you  the  ground  for  divorce?"  he 
asked,  "or  has  Baird  ?" 

"I — why,  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  I  halted  out. 

"Take  it  easy,"  Harvey  said.  "You'd  be  astonished  at 
the  things  a  lawyer  is  told — by  people  of  the  highest  re- 
spectability, too.  Suppose  Baird  has  got  the  grounds  ? 
We'll  find  a  way  to  put  the  screws  on  him.  I'll  get  a  di- 
vorce for  you — whatever  the  circumstances  are.  But  I've 
got  to  know — I've  got  to  know  the  ground  facts — the 
truth." 

At  a  loss,  I  made  no  answer,  and  he  added : 

"There's  nothing  in  the  matter  of — er — this  fellow 
that's  with  you — young  Tipton — that's  going  to  handicap 
our  action,  is  there  ?" 

I  stared  at  him  angrily. 

"Oliver  never  saw  or  heard  tell  of  such  a  person." 

"That's  all  to  the  good,  of  course,  but  if  there's  anything 
there  to  furnish  Baird  with  a  cross-bill,  we  want  to " 

"For  goodness'  sake!"  I  burst  out,  my  face  flaming. 
"That  boy!  Why,  he — he's  like  any  child  to  me — like 
Boyce.  Certainly  there's  nothing." 

"Oh,  all  right.  Glad  of  it.  Then  let's  get  back  to  our 
real  starting  place.  Give  me  the  ground  facts — the  case 
exactly  as  it  stands — fully — explicitly — between  you  and 
Baird." 

The  ground  facts — it  seemed  to  me  that  I  must  descend 
into  a  pit  of  slime  to  get  them  and  bring  them  up  to  him ; 
but  this  once  it  must  be  done.  I  put  my  hand  up  across 
my  eyes  and  began  speaking.  I  stumbled  along  somehow 
with  things  I  had  never  intended  to  tell  another  human 
being.  Once  launched,  I  made  a  clean  breast  of  it,  look- 
ing down  beneath  my  sheltering  hand,  blurting  out  one 
statement  after  another,  while  Harvey  let  me  alone — I 
suppose  his  lawyer's  skill  told  him  he  would  get  more  out 
of  me  that  way. 

"That's  all,"  I  gasped,  finally,  when  I  had  come  to  an 


104  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

abashed,  humiliated  completeness  of  revelation.  "I'll 
never  speak  of  it  again  to  you  or  anybody  else,  if  I  never 
get  a  divorce." 

Harvey  hitched  his  chair  forward,  leaned  across  and 
reached  for  my  hand. 

"Don't  worry,"  he  said.  "That's  plenty  to  go  on — and 
a  lot  more  than  I  expected  to  have.  I  can  see  where  Baird 
doesn't  resist  your  suit.  We  can  get  money  out  of  him, 
too,  if  you're  willing  to  bring  these  complaints  into  court." 

I  fairly  withered  at  the  thought. 

"Oh,  no,"  I  said,  hastily.  "I  promised  in  my  note  that 
I'd  never  ask  for  a  cent  if  he'd  let  me  alone  and  let  me 
have  Boyce." 

"Maybe  that's  better,"  Harvey  agreed.  "He  hasn't  got 
enough  to  be  worth  fighting  for.  Huh,  after  all,  I  envy 
you.  You  can  have  a  divorce  for  the  asking.  You're  not 
tied  by  the  leg  for  life." 

I  .settled  hat  and  veil,  and  picked  up  my  gloves  ner- 
vously. 

"Never  mind  those  things."  Harvey  took  the  gloves 
from  me  and  put  them  in  his  pocket.  "You  needn't  try 
to  shut  me  off  that  way." 

"I  wasn't,"  I  said,  "only  I " 

"Well,  you  needn't."  He  wagged  his  head.  "I'm  go- 
ing to  talk  some.  Don't  think  you  made  the  only  mar- 
riage that  looks  pretty  well  on  the  outside  and  is  a  dead 
misfit  as  far  as  fundamentals  are  concerned.  Hold 

on "  He  saw  I  was  trying  to  interrupt  him.  "I  was 

a  widower  when  I  married  Dele,  was  I  ?  Supposed  to 
know  a  few  things  ?  Well,  I'd  been  a  decent  kid — I  had 
no  women  experience.  That  first  marriage  of  mine — 
miserable  affair!  The  poor  little  girl  didn't  know  any 
better  than  I  did  why  she  oughtn't  to  go  through  the  form 
of  marriage  with  a  healthy  young  man.  I  didn't  really 
know  anything  about  sex.  They're  so  darned  decent  that 
they  don't  teach  young  folks  what  would  be  of  the  most  use 


AT  THE  ROADHOUSE  105 

to  them.  Now  I  suppose  I  can  spend  the  rest  of  my  life 
paying  Dele's  sanitarium  bills  and  looking  at  other  men's 
children.  That  boy  of  yours — ought  to  have  been  yours 
and  mine,  if  things  had  gone  right." 

I  didn't  know  which  way  to  look. 

"Maybe — after  a  while — when  her  health's  better,"  I 
began,  shamefacedly,  but  he  cut  in  on  me: 

"Oh,  no.  Dele's  made  sure  of  that.  She  was  half  sure 
when  she  married  me.  Now  she's  gone  for  a  second  opera- 
tion. We  fought  over  it  about  a  week.  But  of  course  the 
doctor  sided  with  her — said  it  was  necessary.  So  that's 
settled." 

I  wanted  to  turn  the  conversation,  but  couldn't  think  of 
anything  to  say.  Harvey  was  chewing  away  at  something 
in  his  own  mind.  Now  he  began  again  : 

"I  suppose  they  all  thought  back  there  in  Stanleyton 
that  I  made  a  fine  match — good  family,  and  so  forth. 
Huh !  When  I  came  down  here  to  San  Vicente,  Dele  was 
the  only  girl  I  knew.  She  and  her  mother  went  after  me 
strong,  and  they  got  me — that's  all.  It  was  you  I  always 
wanted.  Calla,  do  you  remember  that  time  when  we  were 
making  fudge  at  your  house,  and  you  and  I  were  in  the 
pantry  pouring  the  stuff  out  into  the  platters,  and  I  tried 
to  kiss  you  ?" 

I  laughed,  between  apprehension  and  nervous  relief  at 
this  childish  turn  he'd  taken,  and  reminded  him: 

"You  came  pretty  near  getting  yourself  lamed  for  life 
by  having  hot  candy  spilled  on  your  foot." 

"Sure,"  said  Harvey.  "You  fought  like  a  little  tiger — 
and  I  didn't  get  my  kiss."  Then,  suddenly:  "I  want  it 
now.  This  time  I'm  going  to  have  it." 

I  jumped  up  and  ran,  but  the  door  I  tried  opened  into 
an  adjoining  room — and  was  locked.  Harvey  was  on  his 
feet,  and  coming  toward  me. 

"Behave  yourself!"  I  cried,  doubled,  and  flew  around 


106  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

the  table.  We  stopped  with  it  between  us  and  stared  at 
each  other. 

"Calla,"  whispered  Harvey,  "you  can't  put  me  off  this 
time.  Oh,  you  know  how  to  look  at  a  man  and  just,  drive 
him  crazy." 

"I  don't,"  I  protested,  though  I  dared  not  glance  away 
from  him  for  a  moment.  "It  isn't  so.  Harvey— for 
heaven's  sake!" 

"Don't  raise  your  voice  that  way,"  he  cautioned,  un- 
easily. "I'm  right  here — the  folks  outside  needn't  be 
taken  into  our  confidence.  Come  on — girl.  Give  me  that 
kiss." 

I  had  got  my  bearings  now  and  located  the  door.  It 
must  be  behind  me.  I  whirled  and  had  hold  of  the  knob 
before  Harvey  could  get  around  the  table  and  stop  me. 
As  I  turned  it  his  hand  closed  over  mine. 

"You  don't  want  to  do  that,"  he  said,  quietly.  It  seemed 
as  if  the  mere  prospect  of  my  opening  the  door  had  cooled 
him.  He  was  more  like  the  man  who  had  talked  to  me  in 
his  office  that  morning.  Still  I  clung  to  the  knob,  leaning 
as  far  away  from  him  as  I  could.  After  all,  the  scene  was 
not  so  very  different  from  that  one  back  in  my  mother's 
pantry  when  we  were  pouring  out  the  hot  fudge  and  he  had 
tried  to  steal  a  kiss. 

Harvey  began  to  argue  reproachfully. 

"See  here;  I  don't  understand  you.  Of  course,  you 
used  to  be  a  regular  little  touch-me-not.  But  now — why, 
I  came  mighty  near  having  my  kiss  this  morning  when 
you  grabbed  me  there  in  the  office — only  it  wasn't  the 
right  place.  Seems  to  me  you  blow  hot  and  cold.  I  don't 
understand  you." 

"Stop  talking  that  way!"  I  said.  "There's  nothing  to 
understand.  I'm  not  any  different  from  what  I  was  back 
in  Stanleyton." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  are."     Harvey  drawled  out  the  words, 


1  SHOVED  AT  HIM  DESPERATELY  WITH  MY  DOUBLED 
FIST,  AND  WITH  THE  OTHER  HAND  REACHED  BLINDLY 
OUT  AND  TURNED  THE  KNOB 


AT  THE  ROADHOUSE  107 

looking  at  me  through  narrowed  eyes.  "No  woman  goes 
through  what  you've  been  telling  me  and  isn't — different." 

"I  .knew  you'd  never  respect  me  again,"  I  said,  low. 
"But  you  told  me  you  had  to  know  the  ground  facts.  The 
ground  facts!  I  ran  away  from  that.  I  went  to  any 
length  to  get  out  of  it.  I  think  such  a  marriage  is  more 
immoral  than  what  the  world  generally  calls  immorality." 

"And  there's  where  you're  dead  right."  Harvey  tried 
to  draw  me  away  from  the  door,  but  I  kept  my  hold.  "A 
man  and  woman  could  live  together  comfortably  without 
marriage,  and  not  half  the  harm — no  harm  at  all,  in  fact." 

"I  wasn't  discussing — anything  of  the  sort." 

"Well,  I  am.  There's  plenty  of  it  going  on,  let  me  tell 

you.  If  people  are  only  careful  of  appearances Take 

you  and  me,  for  instance ;  we  could " 

"Harvey,  hush!"  I  broke  in.  "What  do  you  want  to 
talk  about  such  a  thing  for?" 

"All  right,"  he  said,  slowly.  "Then  I  won't."  His  eye 
was  on  me.  "Here  are  your  gloves." 

I  let  go  the  door  knob  and  reached  for  them.  He 
grabbed  me.  I  ducked.  Hat  and  veil  came  between  his 
face  and  mine,  were  dragged  down  in  the  tussle,  threaten- 
ing to  bring  my  hair  about  my  eyes.  I  shoved  at  him  des- 
perately with  my  doubled  fist,  and  with  the  other  hand 
reached  blindly  out  and  turned  the  knob — the  door  was 
opening  when  Harvey  caught  it. 

"Hold  on,"  he  whispered.  "Let's  get  straightened  up 
before  we  let  the  waiter  see  us." 

I  flung  my  head  back,  crouching  away  from  him.  He 
took  a  look  at  my  face,  and  his  own  changed. 

"For  God's  sake,  don't  look  so  scared,  child."  He  waited 
with  his  hand  on  the  knob.  "Pull  yourself  together.  I 
apologise."  He  still  breathed  short.  "Nothing's  hap- 
pened. You're  all  right.  I'm  all  right.  We're  the  best 
friends  in  the  world — and  always  going  to  be." 

Without  a  word  I  crowded  toward  the  door. 


108  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

"Steady.  Turn  round — let  me  see  if  your  hat's  on 
straight.  All  right."  He  opened  the  door.  "We  must  be 
getting  home,"  he  remarked,  in  a  louder  tone,  apparently 
for  the  benefit  of  the  sleepy  waiter  behind  the  desk  in  the 
office.  "The  folks  will  be  wondering  what's  become  of  us." 

Out  at  the  car  Harvey  stopped  me  when  I  moved  toward 
the  tonneau. 

"Won't  you  sit  beside  me  ?"  he  asked,  penitently. 

I  made  no  answer,  but  got  into  the  front  seat.  He 
cranked  up,  stepped  in,  and  for  some  time  we  drove  in 
silence.  At  last  he  began  speaking. 

"E"ow,  see  here,  Calla,  you  don't  want  to  be  a  foolish 
little  Puritan  and  quarrel  with  a  good  friend  because  he 
chances  to  be  a  human  man  and  not  just  a  stuffed  suit  of 
clothes." 

I  hadn't  the  heart — nor  the  voice — to  answer.  He 
waited  a  minute,  then  said: 

"I'm  sorry.  I'll  promise  never  to  offend  you  that  way 
again — though  if  you  ask  me,  I  don't  see  why  an  old  friend 
that's  willing  to  go  his  length  for  you  shouldn't  have  a 
kiss.  Honest  I  don't,  honey.  It  seems  to  me  you're  mak- 
ing something  wrong  out  of  a  thing  that  has  nothing  wrong 
in  it.  Aren't  you  ?  Isn't  that  so  ?" 

I  sat  hunched  up,  as  far  away  from  him  as  I  could  get, 
looked  straight  ahead  of  me,  and  made  no  answer.  That 
gold  piece  was  white-hot;  it  burned  through  and  through 
my  consciousness. 

"Calla,"  there  was  alarm  in  his  voice,  "what  is  the  mat- 
ter? What  makes  you  take  it  like  this?  I  didn't  mean 
any  real  harm — honest  to  God,  I  didn't.  I'm  just  that 
way.  You  always  knew  it." 

"I  suppose  I  did."  My  voice  was  so  husky  that  he  had 
trouble  to  hear  me.  I  tried  again.  "It  made  me  slow 
about  coming  to  you  in  the  first  place.  And  now  you've 
fixed  it  so  that  I  haven't  got  a  friend  in  San  Vicente." 

"You  know  better  than  that.    I'm  a  good  friend." 


AT  THE  ROADHOUSE  109 

I  cleared  the  choke  from  my  throat,  and  cried : 

"You  can't  do  anything  for  me  now !  I've  got  to  go  out 
and  get  Boy  back  to-morrow,  and : 

My  hand  moved  toward  my  pocket.  Harvey  caught  the 
wrist,  exclaiming: 

"You've  no  right  to  do  that !  You're  bound  to  consider 
the  child's  welfare." 

"Well,  we'd  both  better  starve  in  the  street  than  that  his 
mother  should " 

"Oh,  Calla,  Calla !"  Harvey  threw  up  his  hand  in  pro- 
test. The  car  came  to  a  sudden  stop  in  the  middle  of  the 
road.  "There,  I've  killed  my  engine.  What  can  I  say? 
What  do  you  want  me  to  say  ?  I'm  sorry  to  death — I'm 
just  as  humble  as  I  can  be.  Will  it  fix  it  if  I  promise 
never  to  give  you  the  slightest  offence  again  ?  Why,  we're 
old  friends,  child.  We've  known  each  other  all  our  lives. 
I  used  to  think  everything  of  your  father." 

I  couldn't  answer  him.  After  a  moment  he  started  up 
the  car.  We  rode  on  a  while,  then  Harvey  asked,  quietly : 

"How  is  it,  Calla  ?  Are  you  going  to  forgive  me  ?  You 
have  to  be  helped.  You  can't  make  it  alone.  I  want  to  be 
your  friend — somebody's  got  to.  I  can  do  it — if  you'll 
give  me  a  chance.  I  can  behave  to  suit  you." 

"Well,"  I  sighed  wearily. 

"And  it's  all  right  between  us?  We're  friends — if  I 
promise  to  be  good  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  I'll  push  your  divorce  case ;  and  you'll  let  me  go 
ahead  with  the  business  arrangements  for  you  ?  Don't  say 
no.  I'll  turn  it  over  to  old  man  McBride,  if  you  want  me 
to — you  won't  have  to  deal  with  me  at  all,  if  you'd  rather 
not." 

"Oh,  you  needn't  do  that,"  I  allowed.  "Harvey,  this 
has  been  a  hard  day.  I — I'm  worn  out.  It's  all  right — 
but  just  let  me  go  home  and  rest." 

"I  will,"  he  said.     "Poor  girl,  it's  a  shame  to  give  you 


110  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

any  more  walking  to  do,  but — it  will  be  best  for  me  to  drop 
you  out  at  the  corner  by  the  drug  store  again — won't  it  ? 
I  only  want  to  use  care — for  your  sake." 

I  just  nodded.  A  minute  later  we  drew  up  at  the  fur- 
tive corner,  and  I  got  out  in  silence.  He  would  have 
driven  on  instantly,  but  I  stopped  him  to  say : 

"You'll  see  Boy  in  the  morning  ?" 

"Oh,  certainly." 

"If  there's  anything  he  needs — maybe  I'd  better  call  at 
the  office  and  see." 

He  caught  at  it  eagerly. 

"That's  right.  You'll  be  starting  in  at  the  business  col- 
lege, anyhow.  Come  to  the  office  on  your  way  up.  I'll 
have  the  good  word  for  you  from  J.  B.  Bye-  bye." 

He  turned  the  car  and  drove  quietly  away. 

Dead  tired,  I  slept  that  night  like  an  overdriven  animal, 
my  empty  arms  thrown  out  across  the  place  where  Boyce's 
little  body  should  have  lain. 


CHAPTER    VII 

THE  TURNING  OF  THE  WHEELS 

I  AWOKE  next  morning  with  my  soul  all  black  and 
blue;  but  I  blamed  myself  more  than  Harvey  for  the 
bruises.  What  a  way  to  behave — protesting,  and  pulling 
away,  girl  fashion !  Of  course  it  would  only  make  him 
worse.  And  in  the  end  that  gush  of  his  about  "being  good" 
— "never  offending  again" — was  no  practical  basis  for  a 
business  relation.  He  was  offering  me  much;  he  meant 
to  be  kind.  The  only  way  was  to  have  things  out  with 
him  calmly  and  definitely.  All  through  my  dressing,  my 
breakfast,  and  going  down  to  the  Cronin  Building,  to  the 
very  minute  I  walked  into  McBride,  McBride  &  Watkins's 
office,  I  was  nerving  myself  for  the  interview — only  to  be 
told  that  Mr.  Watkins  hadn't  come  down  yet. 

"But  he  'phoned  me  to  hand  you  our  scholarship  card," 
said  Bates,  the  clerk,  when  he  saw  how  blank  I  looked, 
and  reaching  it  from  a  pigeon-hole,  shoved  it  into  my 
fingers,  along  with  an  envelope  that  had  my  name  type- 
written on  it  and  the  memorandum,  "Expense  money; 
$2.50,  in  addition  to  $5.00  in  hand  paid."  Harvey  had 
made  an  open  business  transaction  of  the  matter.  I  was 
still  a  little  bewildered,  but  I  couldn't  see  why  this  wasn't 
better  than  my  idea  of  having  a  talk.  Apparently  he'd  put 
matters  now  on  a  basis  that  would  answer.  Bates  was 
explaining  like  a  cash  register. 

"You're  to  get  this  weekly,  or  any  way  you  prefer,  at 
my  desk." 
-  I  nodded. 

"If  I  might  offer  a  suggestion,  Mrs.  Baird,"  Bates's 
imitation-lawyer  tones  were  modelled  a  little  on  Harvey's, 
but  more  on  the  older  and  more  imposing  McBride 


THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

brother's,  "I'd  advise  you  to  read  law  at  night — just  a 
handbook  or  so.  They're  right  here  in  the  office  library. 
You'll  find  it  a  big  help  in  holding  a  position  of  this  kind." 

"Thank  you,  it  seems  a  good  idea,"  I  said;  passed  out, 
got  into  the  elevator,  and  went  up. 

The  Phipps  Business  College  occupied  the  entire  top 
floor  of  the  Cronin  Building,  divided  off  by  cheap,  half- 
high  partitions,  except  the  one  to  the  typing  room.  When 
the  door  of  this  opened  a  moment  for  "Pop  Phipps"  to 
come  out  and  speak  to  me,  a  perfect  blast  of  factory-like 
clatter  came  out  with  him.  He  received  me  in  a  little 
glassed-in  office.  Down  at  the  other  end  I  could  see  some 
rooms  were  used  for  housekeeping.  A  red-haired  girl  in  a 
bungalow  apron  was  plainly  visible  through  the  open  door, 
washing  dishes.  Mrs.  Phipps  came  out  of  the  same  place 
and  joined  us  in  the  office. 

My  card  turned  out  to  be  a  free  scholarship,  placed  with 
the  McBride  firm  when  the  college  was  getting  started, 
supposed  to  cover  any  legal  business  that  might  become 
necessary,  but  really  given  for  the  purpose  of  advertising 
the  school.  The  Phippses  openly  lost  enthusiasm  at  sight 
of  it.  Yet  they  proceeded  to  the  routine  questions.  My  lit- 
tle bit  of  work  in  stenography  and  typing  in  high  school 
so  long  ago  amounted  to  nothing.  As  a  beginner  I  would 
be  in  Mrs.  Phipps's  classes.  While  Pop — nobody  ever 
called  him  anything  else — went  after  the  books  I  was  to 
carry  home  with  me,  Mrs.  Phipps  took  the  opportunity  to 
size  me  up.  I  didn't  wait  for  more  than  one  plain,  blunt 
question  to  give  her  the  practical  points  of  my  situation 
quite  as  plainly  and  bluntly,  and  I  finished  by  saying  that 
I  still  hoped  to  find  a  place  where  I  could  work  enough 
to  cover  my  board. 

"Yes,"  she  glanced  back  toward  the  half-open  door  and 
the  girl  in  the  bungalow  apron,  "we  use  student  help,  but 
Miss  Scott  has  the  place  now — and  there's  always  a  wait- 
ing list  among  the  students." 


THE  TURNING  OF  THE  WHEELS         113 

So  I  began  at  twenty-two,  and  with  a  child  dependent 
upon  me,  to  do  the  thing  that  ought  to  have  been  com- 
pleted when  I  was  seventeen  and  in  high  school.  If  I 
had  ten  daughters,  they  should  all  be  given  knowledge  of 
some  useful  occupation  by  which  they  might  earn  an  hon- 
est living  at  need.  My  mother  had  felt  that  her  daughter 
was  too  pretty  and  attractive  ever  to  have  that  need.  She 
did  not  know  that  any  beauty  or  charm  a  woman  may  have 
seems  to  turn  against  her  and  hinder  her  when  she  it 
pitched  into  the  tide  of  unskilled  workers. 

Mrs.  Tipton  surprised  me  a  little  when  I  came  to  deal 
with  her.  There  was  something  fine  in  the  way  she  ac- 
cepted me,  never  taking  the  attitude  of  the  others  in  the 
house  that  I  was  a  designing  woman,  an  adventuress,  a  di- 
vorcee— worse,  a  would-be  divorcee — dangerous  to  her 
boy ;  but  fluting  at  me  like  a  little  brown  partridge  mother : 

"If  Eddie  likes  to  let  you  have  the  room  while  he's  not 
using  it,  why  should  I  charge  you  rent  ?  It  is  certainly  a 
poor  place.  I  couldn't  offer  it  to  a  boarder.  You're  wel- 
come, Mrs.  Baird." 

In  my  heart  I  forgave  her  for  having  called  me  "an 
oddity,"  and  I  accepted  the  room  for  the  two  weeks  that 
Joe  Ed  had  at  first  offered  me.  Beyond  that,  we  finally 
settled  on  a  dollar  and  a  half  a  week  as  proper  rent.  It 
was  ridiculously  cheap  for  anything  in  the  Poinsettia,  of 
course,  and  when  I'd  cleaned,  swept,  dusted,  and  got  my 
books  and  a  few  other  things  I'd  brought  with  me  in  place, 
it  began  to  be  home. 

There  was  no  guessing  whether  Joe  Ed's  mother  had 
any  inkling  of  what  had  been  thrust  on  my  notice  that  first 
night  in  his  room ;  but  I  knew,  if  she  did  not,  that  it  would 
be  a  good  thing  for  her  son  to  be  out  of  the  house  just 
then.  In  the  cleaning  and  settling  of  my  new  quarters  I 
came  up  against  Addie  several  times,  with  her  smoulder- 
ing gaze  and  red,  sulky  mouth — a  cheap  personality,  yet 
not  lacking  a  touch  of  the  dramatic.  Poor  thing,  she 


114  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

looked  at  me  rather  queerly  that  first  day;  but  as  time 
went  by  and  nothing  came  of  the  incident  she  ceased  to  pay 
any  special  attention  to  me. 

At  five  o'clock  I  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer,  dropped 
everything  and  went  out  to  see  Boy.  There  he  was  in 
"Can't  Bust  'Ems,"  all  taken  up  with  his  own  affairs  over 
in  a  corner  of  the  garden.  He  wasn't  interested  in  me  un- 
less I  would  come  and  help  dig,  and  I  finally  went  away 
relieved.  My  last  view  was  of  his  bright  head  bobbing 
there  under  the  acacias;  the  sound  of  his  voice  followed 
me,  singing  like  a  giant  bumble-bee,  "Doomble,  doomble, 
doomble,  doomble,  oomble,  oomble  oomble." 

How  I  revelled  in  the  sense  of  individual  responsibility ! 
I,  none  other,  was  to  make  it — or  fail.  Back  at  the  ranch 
I  was  part  of  an  enterprise  in  no  sense  mine ;  I  had  to 
work  it  in  a  way  I  should  never  have  planned  in  the  first 
place,  or  held  to  afterward,  like  a  rower  down  in  the 
bowels  of  a  galley,  who  can't  see  where  he  is  going  or  why 
he's  trying  to  get  there. 

The  week  flew  past  in  a  hurry.  I  was  so  rushed — and 
so  pleasantly  rushed — that  I  hadn't  a  minute  to  think, 
much  less  to  worry.  Getting  up  early  to  study  before  I 
left  the  house ;  carrying  a  book  along  to  the  restaurant  to 
prop  it  beside  my  coffee  cup  for  a  last  desperate  go  at  the 
lesson;  sitting  in  a  school  desk,  praised  for  a  good  recita- 
tion, reproved  for  a  poor  one — why,  it  was  as  though  I  had 
wakened  at  a  stroke  from  a  dream,  a  nightmare  of  a  miser- 
able marriage  and  a  ruined  life,  to  find  myself  a  school- 
girl again ! 

The  hopes,  the  ambitions,  of  that  schoolgirl  roused, 
hungry  from  that  six  years'  sleep,  it  took  all  the  anxieties 
I  had,  burdens  of  my  poor  wardrobe  and  the  care  of  my 
room — things  that  mother  used  to  help  me  with — to  keep 
my  feet  on  the  ground.  They  wanted  to  dance  these  days. 

Oh,  I  knew  I  was  like  a  girl  again  when  the  admiring 
glances  began  to  come  my  way  from  the  classmates  or 


THE  TURNING  OF  THE  WHEELS         115 

young  fellows  who  waited  in  the  lobby  of  an  evening  to 
walk  home  with  some  girl.  If  I  didn't  want  such  an  es- 
cort myself,  I  had  need  to  look  a  bit  prim  and  unapproach- 
able. Well — I  didn't  want  one,  of  course,  but  it  was  a 
luxury  and  a  reassurance  to  be  able  tacitly  to  refuse  again ! 
Let  the  most  correct  and  Puritanic  gainsay  me  if  she  can ! 

Curiously  enough,  the  first  memories  of  Philip  Stanley 
that  didn't  hurt  swam  in  upon  this  insurging  tide  of  girl- 
hood. Always,  up  to  this  time,  thought  of  him  had  come 
knife  in  hand,  stabbing  at  my  self-respect ;  but  now  I  had  a 
glimpse  of  being  able  to  cast  back — almost  happily — to 
the  days  when  the  high-handed  young  outlaw  had  made 
me  his  consort  and  confidante.  It  might  have  been  only 
the  association  of  ideas,  but  whatever  it  was,  it  sometimes 
carried  me  so  far  that  it  would  scarcely  have  seemed 
strange  to  have  him  walk  into  the  classroom  of  the  Phipps 
Business  College  of  a  morning,  making  all  those  about 
me  look  less  than  themselves ;  and  still  mine,  giving  me  the 
sense  of  being  an  emperor's  chosen. 

I  had  dreaded  Sunday  a  little,  on  account  of  Harvey; 
it  would  be  my  one  free  day  for  Boyce — and  his,  too.  But 
it  seemed  I  need  not  have  worried — he  was  out  of  town 
for  the  week-end.  Boy  and  I  took  a  picnic  lunch  and  rode 
as  far  as  a  little  spur  line,  the  San  Vicente,  Las  Reudas  & 
Corinth,  would  take  us.  It  wound  up  in  a  beautiful,  still 
canyon  of  the  foothills.  We  had  a  long,  happy  day  of  it 
there. 

Then,  back  at  the  school  work  once  more,  I  dug  at  it  for 
all  I  was  worth ;  it  went  fast ;  what  I  had  done  years  be- 
fore was  not  altogether  wasted.  It  was  early  in  that  first 
month  that  Pop  Phipps  called  me,  the  rawest  beginner  he 
had,  into  the  office  to  talk  to  Frank  Hollis  Dale.  I  had 
seen  the  tenant  of  the  back  bungalow  almost  daily,  as  he 
went  and  came,  always  fluttering  Mrs.  Tipton's  "bunch  of 
dames"  by  his  mere  passing.  It  surprised  me  a  little  to 
find  his  Eastern  elegance  and  finish  here  at  the  Phipps 


116  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

school  looking  for  the  sort  of  student  help  that  cost  noth- 
ing.   But  when  he  began  to  speak  I  forgot  this. 

He  wanted  his  weekly  lecture  at  the  college  typed ;  Pop 
Phipps  had  picked  me  out  on  account  of  my  Latin,  and 
because  he  said  I  was  the  only  one  he  "had  on  hand," 
among  those  who  would  work  for  the  practice  and  with- 
out pay,  with  sufficient  general  intelligence  to  handle  Mr. 
Dale's  matter.  Perfectly  superior  and  unabashed,  the 
great  man  explained  that  it  would  be  mostly  copying, 
asked  me  if  I  could  read  a  bad  hand  and  very  blind  manu- 
script, and  suggested  that  he'd  have  to  read  the  worst  of 
it  to  me;  but  if  Frank  Hollis  Dale  only  said  "two  of 
these,"  or  "make  them  eight  by  twelve,"  or  inquired,  "Will 
it  be  ten  cents  or  fifteen  ?"  the  power  of  a  big,  clear  intel- 
lect seemed  to  raise  the  value  of  the  insignificant  words. 
Listening  to  him  was  like  stepping  into  a  large,  quiet,  well- 
proportioned  room  that  contained — everything  you  wanted 
to  know. 

It  was  my  first  contact  with  greatness  in  the  flesh ;  and 
for  once  the  maxim  failed — I  was  not  disappointed.  The 
arrangement  was  for  me  to  do  the  typing  on  Mr.  Dale's 
own  machine  at  the  bungalow,  the  work  to  begin  that  after- 
noon. I  think  I  carried  as  wildly  beating  a  heart  as  Miss 
Creevey  would  have  had  under  similar  circumstances 
when,  about  three  o'clock,  I  made  myself  as  neat  as  pos- 
sible, went  out  the  front  door  of  the  Poinsettia,  took  the 
leafy  tunnel-way,  and  knocked  at  the  entrance  of  the  little 
green  hill  in  the  back  yard. 

Mr.  Dale  opened  the  door  to  me  himself ;  I  took  a  quick 
look  around.  The  cottage  had  been  rented  furnished; 
there  was  nothing  interesting  except  his  books,  which  filled 
the  built-in  shelves  and  overflowed  on  tables,  chairs  and 
floor.  One  section  of  plate  shelf  by  the  door  was  crowded 
with  copper  and  sculptured  stone  things  that  I  was  sure 
had  come  from  the  Central  American  explorations.  But 
he  called  me  straight  across  to  the  typewriter,  without 


THE  TURNING  OF  THE  WHEELS        117 

giving  me  a  moment  to  examine.  He  was  behindhand 
with  his  work,  and  in  haste  to  begin. 

He  found  me  slow  and  drove  me  like  a  fire,  seeming  to 
forget  whether  I  was  a  human  being  or  a  clumsy,  half- 
made  tool.  Impatiently  he  repeated  his  phrases  till  I  got 
them  down  on  the  paper.  His  fingers  twitched  irritably 
as  they  pointed  me  through  the  labyrinth  of  manuscript. 
The  lecture  was  on  archaeology ;  I  knew  nothing  about  the 
subject,  and  would  have  said  I  cared  less.  But  even  amid 
that  breathless  struggle  to  keep  up  I  could  see  that  he  made 
it  fascinating.  I  panted  and  perspired.  It  began  to  grow 
dark.  I  thought  we  weren't  going  to  pay  any  attention  to 
dinner  time,  for  Mr.  Dale  snapped  on  the  current  in  the 
goose-neck  light  that  stood  beside  the  typewriter  table,  and 
went  ahead,  till  he  suddenly  realised  that  he  was  hungry. 
He  was  done  with  me  that  minute,  though  we  had  only 
about  one-third  of  the  lecture  in  type.  I  got  up  quickly  to 
go;  any  decision  that  Mr.  Dale  had  made  so  immediately 
came  out  into  the  atmosphere  around  him  that  he  could 
almost  make  you  obey  without  saying  a  word. 

"What  time  will  you  want  me  to-morrow  ?"  I  asked. 

"A  little  earlier,  please." 

I  did  want  to  stay  for  a  minute  and  look  around  the 
room,  though  that  goose-neck  light,  intended  for  nothing 
but  to  show  you  the  spot  you  were  working  on,  didn't  give 
much  chance  to  see  anything,  and  Mr.  Dale  was  excusing 
himself  brusquely: 

"To-morrow  at  half  past  two,  then,  we'll  say.  Pardon 
me — will  you  close  up  things  here  ?  I'm  my  own  cook  and 
bottle  washer.  I'll  be  lighting  the  gas  stove  for  my 
dinner." 

I  went.  In  the  days  after  that  I  was  always  looking 
for  a  chance  to  become  a  little  better  acquainted  with  the 
room  and  the  man  who  dictated.  The  interest  of  both  lay 
partly  in  their  refusing  themselves  to  me.  It  was  a  charm 
I  couldn't  get  away  from,  and  more  purely  of  the  intellect 


118  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

than  anything  which  had  yet  come  my  way.  My  only 
chance  really  to  enjoy  it  was  when  Dr.  Rush  dropped  in, 
as  he  did  sometimes  while  we  were  at  work.  Mr.  Dale 
wouldn't  stop  for  any  other  human  being,  but  the  doctor 
might  stay  as  long  as  he  liked — which  couldn't  be  very 
long,  for  he  had  a  big  practice  and  was  always  on  the 
jump.  The  two  had  been  classmates ;  it  was  through  him 
that  Mr.  Dale  had  come  to  San  Vicente.  They  were 
physician  and  patient,  yet  I  realised  that  there  was  no 
question  of  money  between  them  any  more  than  there  was 
between  Mr.  Dale  and  myself,  but  that  the  overworked  big- 
brained  physician,  starved  for  mental  companionship  in 
this  material,  rich,  money-getting  little  city,  prized  above 
money  the  contact  with  a  first-rate  mind. 

A  visit  from  the  doctor  always  meant  a  bout.  At  it 
they  would  go,  hammer  and  tongs  never  discussing  any- 
thing less  than  world  matters,  always  on  opposite  sides — 
the  doctor  with  his  warm,  quick-grasping  hands,  his  red- 
brown  eyes  and  hair  and  skin,  vital,  human,  radical;  the 
other  conservative,  dispassionate,  cold  in  his  colouring  as 
his  view  of  life.  To  sit  mute  and  listen  to  them  was  an 
intellectual  awakening — an  education.  I  was  reminded  of 
the  ancient  sage  whose  student  fell  asleep  so  that  the  il- 
lumination of  the  teaching  went  past  him  to  fall  on  and 
glorify  the  intelligence  of  a  little  black  demon  squatting 
unnoticed  on  the  ground.  Most  often  it  was  Dr.  Rush's 
words  that  enlightened  me.  Yes,  and  I  sometimes  got 
them  again — almost  verbatim — in  Mr.  Dale's  dictation 
next  day. 

I  secured  a  public  library  ticket.  Crowded  as  I  was 
with  school  work,  and  Mr.  Dale's  typing,  I  used  to  go  and 
get  out  something  that  I'd  hoard  him  and  the  doctor 
wrangling  over,  and  carry  it  home  snuggled  under  my  arm, 
with  just  the  gloating,  guilty  feeling  a  secret  drunkard 
has  over  his  bottle.  And  oh,  when  I  read  them  my  dingy 
walls  would  melt  away !  I  read  Jean  Christophe  this  way, 


THE  TURNING  OF  THE  WHEELS         119 

stealing  time  for  it,  taking  it  in  great  gulps,  daring  to  have 
opinions  about  it.  My  shelf  of  old  darlings  looked  down 
at  me  rather  reproachfully — I  was  so  crazy  for  the  new 
stuff ;  I  did  want  to  know  what  people  were  thinking,  feel- 
ing, writing  about  this  minute.  Shaw  with  his  breath-tak- 
ing iconoclasm  was  like  strong  waters  to  me.  His  dancing 
devil  of  wit  could  make  a  place  of  revel  out  of  my  little 
back  room.  Maeterlinck's  Mary  Magdalen  I  read  this 
way,  and  Galsworthy's  Dark  Flower.  Maurice  Hewlett's 
Open  Country  was  to  me  like  coming  out  into  a  free,  beau- 
tiful, idealistic  world. 

The  people  at  the  Poinsettia  executed  a  quick  right- 
about face  as  soon  as  I  began  to  do  typing  for  Mr.  Dale. 
I  was  certainly  no  less  a  working  woman  than  when  my 
statement  of  the  fact  had  put  me  down  in  their  eyes  at  my 
first  dinner ;  yet  being  on  any  sort  of  terms  with  the  great 
man  made  me  at  once  a  person  of  consequence.  They 
even  had  an  air  of  forgetting  by  common  consent  the  odi- 
ous existence  of  Boyce,  and  one  after  another,  as  by  chance, 
they  waylaid  me  to  make  friends.  I  was  willing  enough 
— I  never  cared  to  quarrel.  The  insatiable  curiosity  they 
had  on  this  one  subject  was  what  Joe  Ed  would  have  called 
"funny  as  a  crutch."  Why  did  Mr.  Dale  do  his  own 
work? — as  if  I  could — or  would — tell  them  anything 
about  him.  They  had  the  same  chance  that  I  had  to  know 
that  he  did  his  own  washing  even,  so  far  as  socks  and  knit 
underwear  were  concerned.  They  could  see  him  hanging 
these  things  to  dry  in  the  seclusion  of  that  back  yard. 
They  seemed  to  hope  I  would  know — and  tell — where  his 
salary  as  lecturer  at  the  University  of  San  Vicente  went. 
They  all  asked  whether  he  had  his  wife's  picture  up  any- 
where. Did  I  notice  whether  letters  seemed  to  be  passing 
between  them  ?  What  did  he  seem  to  like  to  eat  ?  Did  he 
black  his  own  shoes  ?  There  wasn't  one  of  them  that 
wouldn't  have  been  glad  to  come  in  with  a  bowl  of  food 
as  the  Himalayan  villagers  did  for  their  holy  man  in  Kip- 


120  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

ling's  story — not  one  who  wouldn't  have  felt  it  an  honour 
to  restore  the  polish  to  those  sacred  boots! 

About  the  most  ridiculous  of  all  these  encounters  was 
when  Miss  Creevey  found  me  reading  her  book,  that  I'd 
picked  up  from  the  hall  table  through  curiosity.  She  was 
so  pleased — I  felt  such  a  hypocrite !  She  told  me  breath- 
lessly, her  lisp  tumbling  the  words  heels  over  head,  that 
she  had  presented  Mr.  Dale  with  a  copy,  and  that  he  said 
it  was  very  unusual ! 

"He  athked  me  if  I  wath  ever  going  to  write  another," 
she  said.  "I  hadn't  thought  of  it  before ;  but  with  hith  en- 
couragement I  am  conthidering  the  matter.  I  could  get 
him  to  critithise  the  manuthcript — and  I  would  thertainly 
have  you  to  type  it." 

So  the  poor  old  lisping  thing  caught  step  with  the  pro- 
cession just  as  she  had  when  I  first  came  to  the  house  and 
Mrs.  Thrasher  was  on  the  warpath  after  me.  Then,  Miss 
Creevey  got  out  her  little  hatchet  and  came  along;  now, 
she  brought  her  book  and  put  it  in  my  hands,  as  full  of 
pride  as  a  young  mother  showing  off  her  baby.  "The  His- 
tory of  Modoc  County  in  Rhyme"  was  a  deformed  infant. 
My  sympathy  for  its  satisfied,  uncomprehending  author 
made  us  friends.  When  Mr.  Dale  handed  the  book  to 
Dr.  Rush  a  week  later,  with  one  of  his  biting,  brilliant 
comments,  I  felt  like  defending  it. 

With  Mrs.  Thrasher  herself  the  Battle  of  the  Unde- 
sirable Boarder  and  Her  Impossible  Child  had  given  place 
to  the  Siege  of  the  Garbage  Man.  As  owner  of  the  prem- 
ises she  attended  to  the  garbage;  she  said  fiercely  that  he 
had  been  systematically  overcharging  her,  and  her  row 
with  him  might  have  taken  her  mind  off  my  affairs ;  but  it 
was  plain  that  the  iron- jawed  woman,  no  less  than  the 
others,  yearned  toward  Frank  Hollis  Dale,  and  hoped  to 
approach  him,  even  through  his  typist.  She  transparently 
made  occasion  to  speak  to  me  one  day,  and  gave  her  formal 


THE  TURNING  OF  THE  WHEELS 

sanction  to  my  existence — yea,  even  to  my  dwelling  in  her 
house  for  a  time. 

So  I  thought,  of  course,  when  Miss  Chandler,  meeting 
me  in  the  hall,  asked  me  in  for  a  cup  of  tea,  that  she,  too, 
wanted  to  talk  about  the  great  man.  I  was  none  the  less 
flattered  by  the  invitation,  for  I  knew  nobody  else  in  the 
house  had  ever  received  one.  Eugenia  Chandler,  an  or- 
phan, about  twenty-six  years  old,  was  by  common  consent 
the  leading  figure  at  the  Poinsettia.  She  belonged  to  what 
was  possibly  the  most  distinguished  family  in  San  Vi- 
cente. Chandler  street  and  Chandler  square  carried  the 
name,  and  though  it  seemed  there  couldn't  have  been  a 
great  deal  of  money  left  her,  she  was  certainly  a  very  in- 
fluential person  for  so  young  a  woman,  admired,  envied, 
run  after. 

Her  room,  directly  over  the  big  downstairs  hall,  had  a 
great  bay  or  oriel  window  that  jutted  out  above  the  front 
entrance.  Its  own  passage  cut  it  off  from  the  main  cor- 
ridor, shutting  it  away  behind  two  doors.  It  was  like  a 
little  separate  residence  within  the  Poinsettia.  There  was 
a  curtained  alcove  for  bed  and  dresser,  a  private  bath,  and 
a  wealth  of  closet  room.  The  old  mahogany,  good  Turkish 
rugs  and  concert  grand  piano  in  the  corner  were  her  own. 

I  was  attracted  by  the  tea  table,  with  its  embroidered 
linen,  Belleek  ware  and  heavy,  handsome  silver,  till  I 
caught  sight  of  the  books  in  her  bookcase;  then  I  flew  to 
them.  There  were  French  and  German  volumes  in  the 
original,  besides  a  lot  of  late  books  that  looked  like  heavy 
reading.  I  knew  by  this  time  that  she  had  been  educated 
very  finely  at  home,  and  studied  music  abroad  under 
teachers  to  whom  you  must  have  an  introduction,  who  will 
not  keep  you  as  a  pupil  unless  you  show  a  certain  ability. 
I  knew,  too,  that  she  went  all  over  the  state,  at  the  invi- 
tation of  women's  clubs  and  musical  organisations,  to  give 
her  parlour  piano  talks.  The  boarders  took  pride  in  her, 


122  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

her  birth  and  station,  her  attainments,  only  a  little  less 
gushing  than  that  they  felt  in  Frank  Hollis  Dale's  celeb- 
rity. I  had  once  or  twice  heard  her  practising — brilliant, 
difficult  stuff — as  I  passed  in  the  hall.  I  don't  care  for 
that  sort  of  thing,  but  as  I  went  and  sat  down  at  the  tea 
table,  feeling  rather  subdued,  it  occurred  to  me  that  it 
would  be  polite  to  ask  her  to  play  for  me  before  I  left. 

When  I  did  so,  she  shrugged  and  laughed  and  said  it 
would  be  "such  a  bore."  I  didn't  know  whether  she  meant 
to  me  or  to  herself.  She  answered  my  timid  remarks 
about  books  in  a  word  or  two.  I  saw  the  subject  did  not 
interest  her. 

It  wasn't  that  she  had  books  about  her  which  she  hadn't 
read,  or  kept  them  there  for  show.  Her  attitude  toward 
the  world  of  print  seemed  to  me  that  of  a  well-bred  person 
who  had  had  all  of  that  sort  of  thing  she  wanted  all  her 
life,  and  saw  nothing  in  it  to  talk  about.  I  would  have 
said  that  she  read  a  book  and  put  it  up  on  the  shelf — and 
that  was  the  end  of  it.  It  just  seemed  to  be  there,  lying 
without  life  in  her  mentality.  My  mental  interests, 
freshly  roused,  keen  and  unsatisfied,  found  no  response 
here.  It  seemed  I  might  as  well  unpack  my  Frank  Hollis 
Dale  budget — of  course  that  was  what  I  was  there  for.  I 
had  just  come  from  my  work  at  the  bungalow,  this  time 
not  a  college  lecture,  but  a  magazine  article,  a  splendid 
thing,  whose  statements  were  set  forth  like  a  martial  ar- 
ray, whose  arguments  came  down  so  many  marching  col- 
umns. But  instinctively  I  chose  to  tell  Miss  Chandler  a 
little  personal  incident  of  the  afternoon. 

"Mr.  Dale  doesn't  need  distance  to  lend  him  enchant- 
ment," I  said ;  "he  always  seems  great  to  me.  This  after- 
noon when  I  went  in,  I  found  him  down  on  his  knees  with 
a  bucket  of  warm  water  and  a  soapy  cloth  wiping  up  the 
kitchen  linoleum.  He  wouldn't  let  me  finish  the  cleaning 
for  him,  either,  but  just  went  and  sloshed  out  his  bucket 
and  cloths  in  the  sink  while  I  was  getting  my  machine 


THE  TURNING  OF  THE  WHEELS 

ready,  then  came  in  and  gave  the  most  brilliant  dictation 
I've  ever  had  from  him." 

There  was  a  little  silence.  Miss  Chandler  poured  me 
more  tea.  I  slowly  realised  that  I  had  been  mistaken ;  here 
was  one  woman  not  in  the  least  concerned  about  Frank 
Hollis  Dale. 

"I  imagine  that  sort  of  thing — scientific  magazine  stuff, 
even  the  best  of  it — doesn't  pay  very  well,"  she  observed, 
as  she  handed  my  cup.  "He's  not  a  popular  writer,  of 
course." 

"Oh — I  suppose  not,"  I  said,  a  little  dashed.  "I  wasn't 
thinking  of  money.  The  play  of  such  an  intellect  is  some- 
thing above  and  beyond  money — like  the  flare  of  lightning 
in  the  sky." 

Miss  Chandler  looked  across  at  me  curiously. 

"How  enthusiastic  you  are !"  she  shrugged.  "You  may 
not  think  about  money,  but  Hollis  Dale  married  into  a  set 
where  he's  got  to." 

"You  know  his  wife  ?"  I  questioned. 

"Some  of  my  friends  do.  It  was  an  ambitious  social 
match,  but  he  didn't  get 'any  money  with  her." 

"Why,  I  thought  it  was  her  fortune  that  went  into  the 
South  American  expedition,"  I  said,  "and  that  was  the 
reason  why  he  was  so  determined  to  make  good — saving 
every  penny — doing  work  not  fit  for  him,  as  he  does." 

"Does  he  save  ?  Well,  he'd  better.  She  didn't  have  any 
money;  just  a  rich  girl's  tastes  and  nothing  to  support 
them.  Her  relatives — Boston  people — put  up  for  that 
South  American  venture.  And  they'll  put  up  again. 
Pride,  you  know — a  scientist  in  the  family — but  they'll 
get  him  just  as  cheap  as  they  can." 

It  was  pride  matching  pride,  then,  I  thought,  recalling 
a  lavish  gift  I  had  helped  him  pack  to  send  home  to  his 
wife  on  their  wedding  anniversary,  an  exquisite  necklace 
of  carved  Chinese  jade,  that  never  cost  less  than  a  hun- 
dred dollars — and  he  washing  up  his  kitchen  floor  to  save 


THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

the  fee  of  a  Jap  houseworker ;  choosing  rather  to  scold  and 
fret  over  my  bunglings  than  to  pay  even  the  nominal 
charge  of  a  more  advanced  pupil. 

When  I  described  that  jade  necklace  to  Miss  Chandler, 
I  quite  innocently  stumbled  upon  the  Great  Subject,  so 
far  as  she  was  concerned — dress ;  personal  ornament.  She 
began  to  get  out  her  own  jewelry  to  show  me.  Soon  the 
top  of  her  bureau  was  covered  with  rings  and  pins  and 
chains  of  one  kind  and  another,  some  old  pieces,  but  mostly 
new.  It  was  like  a  store.  The  conversational  route  from 
jewelry  to  clothes  was  short  and  easy,  and  never  had  I  seen 
anyone  with  such  oceans  of  them.  The  big  closet  with  a 
window  in  it  that  opened  off  her  room,  a  smaller  one  cut 
from  the  entry,  even  some  extra  hooks  and  shelves  in  her 
bathroom,  were  fairly  stuffed  with  shoes,  hats,  wraps, 
dresses — of  rich  material  and  special  design.  She  was  all 
for  what  she  denominated  the  dernier  cri.  Whatever  was 
fashionable  was  to  her  desirable,  so  she  kept  buying  new 
things  all  the  time ;  and  though  she  gave  away  a  great  deal 
to  the  servants,  particularly  Orma,  who  waited  on  her  like 
a  personal  maid,  she  had  there  more  clothes  than  four 
women  could  have  used. 

After  that  I  was  often  asked  into  Miss  Chandler's  room. 
She  had  spells  of  pulling  out  everything  she  possessed  to 
look  over,  when  bed,  couch,  chairbacks,  and  even  the  floor, 
would  be  piled  and  draped  and  hung  with  clothes.  She 
called  me  in  one  of  these  days  as  I  was  passing.  There 
she  sat  on  the  carpet  in  the  middle  of  things,  that  limber, 
graceful  body  of  hers  curled  np  in  the  loveliest  attitude. 
She  wanted  me  to  look  at  a  blouse  she  had  in  her  hands,  a 
combination  of  coffee-coloured  Arabian  lace  over  delicate 
tissue  of  a  curious  raisin  shade. 

"Try  that  thing  on,"  she  said,  and  tossed  it  up  to  me. 

I  slipped  it  over  my  shirtwaist,  and  went  to  the  glass. 
What  I  saw  there  hurt  me.  As  I  stood  staring,  saying 
nothing, 


THE  TURNING  OF  THE  WHEELS         125 

"Do  you  like  it  ?  Is  it  becoming  ?"  she  called  from  her 
place  on  the  floor.  "Turn  around  and  let  me  see." 

I  wheeled,  reluctantly,  hesitating: 

"People  always  look  nicer  in  light  things." 

There  was  no  use  talking  that  way.  I  saw  in  her  eyes 
that  she  recognised  instantly  the  transformation.  That 
rich,  exquisite  garment,  made  simple  with  such  cunning 
skill,  gave  me  the  look  of  stationed  ladyhood  which  be- 
longed to  the  woman  for  whom  it  was  originally  designed. 
People  would  make  way  for  the  wearer  of  the  raisin- 
coloured  waist  as  they  had  never  made  way  for  me  in  the 
clothes  I  bought  as  cheap  as  I  could,  using  my  best  taste 
and  judgment,  keeping  them  clean — but  never  having 
had  any  margin  for  mere  glory  and  dominance  in  my 
wear. 

"It's  a  wonderful  colour  combination,"  was  all  I  could 
say,  as  I  turned  again  to  the  glass. 

"It's  out."  Miss  Chandler  might  have  been  a  Roman 
matron  turning  down  her  thumb  in  death  sentence  on  a 
vanquished  gladiator.  "Those  pastel  tints  were  just  com- 
ing in  when  I  bought  it — they  didn't  last  very  long.  I 
suppose  they're  considered  trying — but  it's  certainly  be- 
coming to  your  warm,  blond  colouring  and  hazel  eyes." 

"I  wonder  if  I  could  make "  I  slowly  drew  off  the 

lovely  thing. 

"Sew,  do  you  mean?  Can  you  sew?"  Miss  Chandler 
inquired,  with  interest. 

"Not  enough  to  attempt  a  waist  like  this — unless  I 
might  copy  it  from  yours,"  I  hesitated.  "Would  you  mind 
that  ?  We  never  go  to  the  same  places." 

"Why  not  take  this  one  ?  I'll  never  wear  it  again.  It 
was  bought  in  San  Francisco,  and  I  found  it  bound  me  in 
the  armholes.  I  got  another  at  the  same  time — the  olive- 
green  one  you  admired — that  I've  worn  a  good  deal;  but 
this  one's  laid  by  till  it's  utterly  passe.  If  you'd  care  to 
remodel  it  for  yourself,  take  it  along." 


126  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

Miss  Chandler's  idea  of  what  was  "utterly  passe"  was 
very  extreme.  I  .knew  that  not  a  stitch  was  needed  on  the 
blouse,  yet  I  hesitated,  and  finally  asked : 

"Haven't  you  got  some  plain  sewing  or  mending  I  could 
do  in  exchange  for  it  ?" 

"Oh,  certainly !"  she  laughed,  rose  straight  up,  unfold- 
ing herself  without  touching  a  hand  to  the  floor,  went  to 
a  drawer  and  began  to  pull  out  silk  stockings  and  under- 
wear. I  saw  she  would  enjoy  my  visits  much  more  after 
she  had  set  me  to  work  on  her  things.  "There's  a  skirt  to 
it — somewhere  under  this  stuff ;  hunt  it  up  and  take  it,  too. 
Throw  your  coat  over  them  as  you  carry  them  upstairs — 
though  nobody  in  the  house  ever  saw  them." 

There  were  not  only  skirt  and  blouse,  but  a  big,  shady 
hat,  trimmed  with  dull  grapes  and  vine  leaves,  and  raisin- 
coloured  suede  pumps  with  ecru  silk  hose  the  shade  of  the 
Arabian  lace.  Oh,  they  were  so  lovely! — dear  as  sweet 
waters  in  a  desert  to  me  who  had  not  had  a  pretty  thing 
for  four  years — not  since  the  bits  of  finery  mother's  love 
had  compassed  for  my  wedding  outfit  disappeared.  Yet  I 
held  off  from  taking  them  till  I  had  seen  just  what  I  was 
going  to  do  in  exchange  for  them,  and  we  had  what  seemed 
to  be  a  very  enjoyable  hour  to  Miss  Chandler,  going  over 
all  her  wear,  hunting  up  odd  jobs  for  me.  Among  other 
things,  I  was  to  break  in  some  shoes,  my  foot  being  smaller 
than  hers.  There  was  a  whole  armload  of  her  silk  stock- 
ings to  darn.  After  I  had  them  she  picked  out  those  that 
she  considered  beyond  repair,  and  I  put  them  in  order  for 
myself. 

It  was  a  pleasant  little,  feminine,  material  intimacy 
that  sprung  up  between  us.  Our  subjects  of  discussion 
were  mostly  confined  to  clothes  and  people.  Miss  Chand- 
ler didn't  feel  about  either  as  I  did.  I'm  a  good  deal  like 
a  setter  pup;  if  I  can't  love  folks — a  little  anyhow — I 
hardly  know  how  to  get  along.  She  was  interested  in  them 
mainly  from  a  critical  point  of  view.  She  was  what  you 


THE  TURNING  OF  THE  WHEELS         127 

might  call  a  confirmed  knocker.  She  had  the  high-society 
way  of  characterising  persons  and  discussing  the  affairs  of 
others  with  the  brutal  freedom  you  expect  from  a  day 
labourer  or  washerwoman.  There's  no  denying  that  her1 
outlook  on  life  was  cynical.  And  my  outreaching  for  in- 
tellectual food  found  no  response  in  her.  But  this  hungry 
heart  of  mine  did  love  her.  Everything  about  her  was  so 
beautiful,  and  generous — why,  I  could  hardly  go  down  to 
her  room  without  being  offered  something.  She  had  two 
or  three  of  all  the  articles  that  most  people  are  glad  to  pos- 
sess one  of ;  for  instance,  she  pulled  out  a  very  pretty  little 
manicure  set  one  day  and  insisted  on  giving  it  to  me,  say- 
ing carelessly: 

"I  bought  it  when  a  party  of  us  were  on  a  trip — unex- 
pectedly. We  went  to  some  outlandish  place  where  there 
was  no  manicure  in  the  hotel,  and  I  sent  down  to  the  drug 
store  and  bought  that  thing.  Take  it,  child — I  don't  even 
know  how  much  it  cost.  I  didn't  pay  for  it  myself. 
You're  welcome  to  it." 

It  seemed  to  be  by  chance  that  this  surface  association 
with  Miss  Chandler  came  to  have  any  quality  of  real  in- 
timacy. I  always  found  her  competent,  reserved  when  it 
came  to  anything  that  really  concerned  her,  a  little  jeer- 
ing, and  not  asking  favours  from  anyone — rather  giving 
them.  But  one  Saturday  afternoon  I  had  gone  down  to  re- 
turn some  things  to  her  room,  tapped  at  the  outer  door, 
got  no  answer,  and  went  away,  though  I  had  felt  sure  she 
was  in.  An  hour  after,  I  went  back,  passed  through  the 
hall  door,  which  was  unlocked,  and  rapped  at  the  inner 
one.  This  time  there  came  the  faint  inquiry : 

"Is  it  Orma?" 

"No — Mrs.  Baird,"  I  answered,  startled  at  a  sort  of 
moaning  quality  there  was  in  her  voice. 

I  heard  a  little  stir  within  the  room,  the  key  was  softly 
turned,  and  after  a  minute  Miss  Chandler  told  me  to  come 
in.  The  shades  were  down,  and  at  first,  when  I  opened  the 


128  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

door,  I  could  see  nothing.  Then  I  made  out  dimly  a  limp, 
drowned-looking  figure  propped  on  the  piled-up  pillows  of 
the  couch. 

"Oh,"  I  said,  "fdidn't  know  you  were  ill." 

"I'm  not,"  she  sounded  more  as  usual.  "Come  in.  Shut 
the  door.  Sit  down  and  talk  to  me." 

"Talk  ?"  I  echoed  awkwardly. 

"Just  sit  down  here  by  the  couch  and  talk  to  me — talk 
of  anything.  I've  got  one  of  my  blue  spells.  I  have  them 
about  once  in  so  often." 

A  blue  spell!  What  a  way  to  meet  depression!  In 
groping  forward  I  knocked  a  book  from  the  table  and  Miss 
Chandler's  voice  said  peevishly: 

"I  hate  being  read  to;"  then  added:  "There's  nothing 
in  the  world  the  matter  with  me  but  the  blues — they  run 
in  our  family.  One  of  my  uncles  used  to  get  so  bad  with 
them  that  he'd  actually  go  to  bed  and  send  for  the  doctor." 

I  pulled  up  a  chair  close  beside  her.  The  room  was 
stuffy,  and  heavy  with  incense.  I  couldn't  see  the  expres- 
sion of  her  face,  but  the  lines  of  that  beautiful  figure  of 
hers  under  the  clinging  folds  of  the  embroidered  Oriental 
robe  fairly  dripped  with  woe.  Whoever  did  think  of  a 
suitable  word  to  say  when  suddenly  told  to  talk?  I  sat 
there,  mum,  trying  to  dig  up  a  cheerful  remark,  till  she 
broke  out: 

"The  game's  not  worth  the  candle.  Do  you  think  so  ? 
Are  you  satisfied  with  life — as  it  is  ?" 

"Yes — pretty  well,"  I  said,  "and  I've  got  something 
better  coming." 

"What?" 

"A  position  and  a  salary." 

"Ugh!"  She  moved  with  a  flowing  motion  from  one 
side  to  the  other.  "Where  ?" 

"In  an  office." 

"What's  the  man's  name  ?"  Miss  Chandler's  voice  had 
a  little  life  in  it. 


THE  TURNING  OF  THE  WHEELS         129 

"Harvey  Watkins,  of  McBride,  McBride  &  Watkins." 
I  could  think  of  nothing  interesting  to  add  to  that. 

"A  second-rate  lawyer,"  she  murmured,  finally,  in  a 
weary  voice.  "It  seems  to  me  you  might  do  better  than 
that." 

"Oh,  I'll  have  to  take  the  place  as  soon  as  I'm  ready  for 
it,"  I  said.  "Harvey's  an  old  friend.  He's  getting  my 
divorce  for  me,  and  advancing  the  money  for  me  to  pre- 
pare myself." 

"Of  course,"  Miss  Chandler  accepted  the  financial  state- 
ment negligently,  as  people  do  who  have  always  had 
plenty,  "but  do  you  think  you'll  like  office  work  ?  I  imag- 
ine it's  stupid." 

"I  don't  see  that  I've  got  much  choice,"  and  I  laughed 
a  little.  "Anyhow,  it's  a  great  improvement  on  what  I've 
been  doing  for  some  years." 

"Is  it?"  She  lay  staring  up  at  the  ceiling  a  moment, 
then  said,  suddenly : 

"I  remember  that  Mrs.  Harvey  Watkins  now.  Bounder. 
Thick,  stubby,  pale  woman — village-dressmaker  clothes — 
belongs  to  improving  clubs." 

I  had  got  used  to  her  speech ;  but  because  of  her  blues 
she  was  slugging  a  little  harder  than  usual  to-day. 

"We  knew  each  other  as  girls,"  I  said.  "Delia's  a  good 
sort.  She's  been  away  ever  since  I  came  here." 

"Are  they  separated?" 

"I  don't  know.    I've  wondered  myself  sometimes." 

"Keeps  you  guessing,  does  he  2  But  the  idea  in  the 
background  is  that  he'll  divorce  her  and  marry  you — eh  ?* 

"Oh,  no,  nothing  of  the  sort !"  I  cried,  but  to  save  my 
life  I  couldn't  keep  my  voice  natural. 

"An  old  dodge,"  she  murmured,  as  though  I  hadn't 
spoken.  "A  girl's  got  to  play  her  cards  pretty  carefully 
with  a  man  who  has  a  wife  to  get  rid  of  before  he  can 
marry  her." 

I  had  to  laugh. 


130  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

"I  don't  want  to  marry  Harvey,"  I  said.  "Not  if  he 
was  divorced  from  Delia  a  thousand  times.  I've  just  got 
to  have  a  job — and  he's  got  one  to  give  me." 

She  turned  on  her  pillow  and  stared  at  me  with  those 
light-grey  eyes. 

"See  here,  Gallic,"  she  said.  "You're  a  man's  woman. 
Every  man  that  comes  near  you  looks  at  you  in  just  one 
way.  That's  what  you  get — whether  you  want  it  or  not 
What  makes  you  sit  there  and  talk  as  though  you  know 
nothing  about  men  ?" 

"Well,"  I  said,  doggedly,  "I  can't  pick  and  choose.  I've 
got  to  make  the  most  of  whatever  genuine  kindness  I  meet, 
and  put  up  with  what  I  can't  change."  I  did  wish  she 
would  get  on  to  some  other  subject.  Her  cynicism  was 
depressing.  "Do  you  think  I  ought  to  make  friends  more 
with  women  ?" 

I  seemed  to  have  said  something  amusing  at  last;  she 
laughed  a  little,  silently. 

"Women — humph,  they're  worse  than  the  men,  hound- 
ing an  unprotected  girl.  Look  at  the  way  the  women 
treated  you  here  in  this  house." 

"They  did  make  it  hot  for  me,"  I  said,  "but  since  you've 
taken  me  up,  and  I'm  working  for  Mr.  Dale,  things  are 
different." 

"Oh,  you  shine  with  reflected  respectability  from  me, 
do  you  ?" 

"From  you,  the  great  musician,"  I  added. 

"Who  said  I  was  a  great  musician  ?" 

"Oh,"  I  joked,  "they've  told  me  all  about  you  down- 
stairs— they  know,  of  course.  They  have  the  soothing  fic- 
tion that  the  reason  you  won't  come  down  to  any  of  their 
card  parties  is  because  you're  so  wrapped  up  in  your  pro- 
fession." 

"My  profession  ?" 

"Well,  career — of  course,  music's  a  career.  They  say 
you're  not  like  most  rich  girls — contented  to  be  a  mere  so- 


THE  TURNING  OF  THE  WHEELS         131 

ciety  butterfly.  They  despised  me  for  having  to  earn  a 
living ;  but  they're  tickled  to  death  over  the  prices  you  get 
for  your  piano  talks." 

"Much  they  know  about  it !"  She  rolled  her  head  on 
the  cushions  scornfully.  "Those  club  lectures  wouldn't 
keep  me  in  nail  polish."  Then,  more  to  herself  than  to 
me:  "A  rich  girl — I  wish  I  were." 

I  sat  back  in  silence.  So  this  was  it.  I  might  have 
known.  What  does  anybody  worry  about  ?  Money,  nearly 
always.  I  had  to  admire  her  pluck  in  keeping  up  appear- 
ances. Flattered,  copied,  run  after — it  would  all  have 
been  over  for  her  the  moment  they  had  suspected  that  she 
was  hard  up — pinched  for  means.  I  didn't  doubt  that  I 
had  to  be  economical,  but  it  seemed  that  Miss  Chandler 
had  to  be  extravagant.  Like  an  echo  of  my  thoughts,  she 
spoke : 

"I  bought  some  new  things  yesterday  afternoon — a 
chiffon  scarf  with  fur  on  it  and  a  smart  turban — in  the 
closet  there — let's  have  them  out.  I  think  I  could  stand  a 
little  light  now." 

The  scarf  was  a  beauty;  the  hat  that  went  with  it,  a 
funny  little  thing  like  a  stew  kettle.  Miss  Chandler  asked 
for  another  pillow  under  her  shoulders,  and  inside  of  five 
minutes  we  had  the  upper  closet  shelf  and  half  the  hooks 
cleared,  and  were  criticising,  trying  on,  planning  more 
purchases.  It  cheered  her  up  so  well  that  when  Orma 
brought  up  the  tray,  she  sent  the  girl  back  for  another, 
and  I  stopped  and  had  dinner  with  her, 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  GAP  IN  THE  HEDGE 

I  GOT  used  to  Boy  being  out  at  Las  Reudas.  Mrs. 
Eccles  called  him  Jawn,  and  treated  me  as  a  rather 
undesirable  candidate  for  their  acquaintance.  People  who 
actually  don't  care  for  you  to  like  them  always  get  me ;  I 
can't  believe  it,  and  keep  coming  back  and  trying  them 
again.  She  picked  faults  with  everything  I  did  for  Boy. 
If  I  took  out  some  candy  she  said  it  was  bad  for  his  teeth — 
which  I  couldn't  deny.  If  I  made  it  a  little  new  tooth 
brush  the  next  day,  she  told  me  coldly  that  she'd  just 
bought  one.  But  he  thrived  so,  and  she  took  such  good 
care  of  him,  that  my  heart  was  at  peace,  my  energies  all 
freed  for  my  work. 

In  point  of  time  it  was  more  than  two  weeks  before  I 
saw  Harvey  Watkins  again.  Then,  so  much  water  had 
gone  under  the  bridge  that,  if  I  had  wanted  to,  I  couldn't 
have  got  back  to  the  helpless,  scared  little  rustic  of  that 
evening  at  the  roadhouse. 

I  had  done  a  lot  of  conscientious  work  to  pay  for  the 
raisin-coloured  dress  and  its  belongings,  but  they  didn't 
look  like  clothes  that  had  been  sewed  for.  I  couldn't  re- 
sist wearing  the  outfit  to  Las  Reudas  to  let  Boy  and  Mrs. 
Eccles  see  it;  and,  passing  through  the  Poinsettia  hall,  I 
had  a  foretaste  of  what  it  was  going  to  do  for  me.  The 
Martins,  Mrs.  Thrasher,  and  some  of  the  others  were  in 
there.  The  whole  bunch  of  them  looked  at  me,  and  looked 
again,  with  real  respect.  The  clothes  did  it.  They  could 
think  no  evil  of  the  wearer  of  the  raisin-coloured  dress! 
In  the  old  blue  serge,  a  haunter  of  bargain  counters,  buy- 
ing only  what  was  under-priced,  I  might  have  been  the  salt 
of  the  earth  and  remained  to  them  a  suspicious  character ; 

132 


THE  GAP  IN  THE  HEDGE  133 

but  a  woman  who  could  afford  negligently  to  put  her 
money  where  it  would  buy  such  quiet  elegance  as  this  must 
have  a  quietly  elegant,  proper  soul  in  her. 

I  went  out  on  the  car  in  high  spirits,  garnering  admira- 
tion all  along  the  way.  just  as  crazy  for  it  as  any  girl, 
carrying  myself  better,  getting  a  better  colour,  I  know,  and 
looking  nicer  in  every  way  because  I  was  admired.  I  had 
gone  by  the  Chandler  street  line ;  to  get  up  from  its  sta- 
tion I  had  to  pass  the  Watkins  place.  There  was  Harvey 
just  backing  his  machine  across  the  sidewalk,  and  I  caught 
a  quick  breath.  I  don't  think  he  knew  me  at  once,  but 
when  he  did  recognise  me,  he  stopped  the  car,  climbed 
down  from  it  and  came  up  with  his  hat  off  to  shake  hands. 

"Well,  Calla,"  he  said,  pumping  my  hand  up  and  down, 
"I  thought  I  never,  never,  never  was  going  to  see  you 
again !" 

"I've  been  very  busy,"  I  said,  with  the  kindly  air  men 
have  when  they  offer  us  that  explanation. 

"You  don't  look  like  a  working  person."  He  surveyed 
me  from  the  top  vine-leaf  and  grape  of  my  hat  to  the  tip 
of  my  raisin-coloured  pumps.  The  inspection  seeemed  to 
do  something  to  him — something  that  I  might  have 
brushed  the  blue  serge  to  pieces  and  never  accomplished. 
"You're  like  a  sixteen-year-old,"  was  as  near  as  he  came 
to  mentioning  the  dress.  "What  do  you  say  to  bringing 
J.  B.  for  a  little  spin  in  the  car  ?" 

"Oh,  I  guess  not,  Harvey — thank  you.  It's  nearly 
seven  o'clock.  He's  always  in  bed  at  seven." 

"That's  what  Mrs.  Eccles  just  fought  me  to  a  stand- 
still on,"  Harvey  admitted.  "Suppose  we  make  it 
earlier  some  evening — would  you  come — with  J.  B.  and 
me?" 

He  gave  the  invitation  without  looking  at  me. 

"Why — if  I  could  get  the  time,"  I  hesitated.  "You 
know,  I'm  working  hard  in  school." 

"I  thought  when  a  woman  had  a  new  dress,"  he  said. 


134  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

baldly,  "she  always  wanted  to  go  somewhere  to  show  it 
off." 

"This  isn't  a  new  dress." 

"Well,  it's  mighty  pretty  and  becoming.  You  look  as 
sweet  and  fresh  in  it  as  your  lilies — come  on  over  and  let 
me  get  you  an  armload  of  them.  I  planted  them  here 
where  I  could  see  them  always — they're  the  only  callas  I 
got." 

"Nonsense,  Harvey,"  I  laughed.  "I've  got  to  run 
along,"  and  I  started  in  earnest. 

"Say,"  he  called  after  me,  jocosely,  "if  you  don't  care 
to  take  the  time  to  go  riding,  you  might  sometimes  let  me 
bring  you  out  from  town  anyhow — save  you  a  nickel !" 

I  found  Mrs.  Eccles  getting  Boy  to  bed.  She  was  none 
too  well  pleased  at  his  outburst  over  "pretty  muwer"  in 
her  new  dress,  though  she  herself  took  an  almost  human  in- 
terest in  the  way  it  was  made.  She  knew  at  a  glance  the 
cost  of  such  clothes,  and  I  could  see  that  she  was  eaten  up 
with  curiosity.  But  I  had  learned  wisdom  since  that  night 
when  I  obligingly  turned  myself  inside  out  for  a  tableful 
of  unsympathetic  women.  I  let  her  hint  and  eye  me  side- 
wise.  I  was  aching  to  tell  all  about  it,  and  crow  a  little, 
yet  I  managed  to  keep  still.  She  was  bound  not  to  show 
her  interest  in  the  dress,  so  she  went  on  complaining  that 
Mr.  Watkins  had  just  been  past  with  his  automobile  and 
wanted  Jawn  to  go  out  riding  with  him.  He  got  the  child 
all  stirred  up.  She  had  agreed  that  they  should  go  to- 
morrow— at  a  proper  time. 

"An'  you,  too,  Muwer,"  Boy  babbled  from  the  crib  he 
was  being  bundled  into.  "You  an'  grammer" — this  was 
the  title  Mrs.  Eccles  had  provided  him  with  for  herself — 
"an'  Fairy,  an'  me — an'  my  bud'n." 

I  kissed  him  good-bye  and  went.  Mrs.  Eccles  was  so 
relieved  that  she  offered  me  some  flowers  from  her  garden. 
I  took  quite  an  armload  of  those  queer  mauve  and  purple 


THE  GAP  IN  THE  HEDGE  135 

things  they  call  old  maid's  pincushions ;  they  just  matched 
the  outfit. 

It  was  neither  daylight  nor  dark,  but  that  sweetest  hour 
of  the  long  twilight  we  have  on  this  western  coast.  There 
was  a  little  new  moon  swimming  in  the  pink  and  smoky 
amethyst  of  the  afterglow.  I  was  as  happy  as  a  girl  ought 
to  be  wearing  a  pretty  new  frock  and  carrying  an  armload 
of  flowers. 

Coming  abreast  of  the  Watkins  place,  I  saw  a  taxi  with 
luggage  on  it  at  the  curb  by  the  Pendleton  bungalow,  and 
a  man  coming  down  the  long  front  walk.  I  quickened  my 
pace,  then  slowed  up;  unless  I  turned  back,  we  should 
meet  squarely.  In  spite  of  my  manoeuvres,  this  happened. 
Though  I  looked  straight  ahead  of  me,  I  saw  that  it  was 
young  Pendleton.  He  stared,  stumbling  at  the  curb  be- 
cause he  failed  to  look  where  he  was  going,  a  hesitating 
hand  rose  to  lift  his  hat  as  he  turned  at  the  door  of  the 
taxi  and  gazed  after  me. 

I  never  in  my  life  refused  to  speak  to  anyone,  but  I  gave 
him  such  a  little  acknowledgment  that  it  could  scarcely  be 
called  a  bow,  or  even  a  nod.  I  hurried  past,  got  my  car, 
and  was  halfway  to  San  Vicente  and  had  forgotten  him, 
when  I  noticed  a  taxi  with  luggage  on  it  running  beside  us. 
I  drew  back  from  the  window.  From  that  time  on  I  would 
miss  the  machine,  and  then  find  it  had  only  been  travelling 
on  the  other  side  of  the  car  or  taking  some  parallel  street 
for  a  short  distance.  When  we  got  in  town  I  thought  I 
had  lost  it  for  good,  but  as  I  was  going  up  the  steps  of  the 
Poinsettia  it  came  in  sight.  While  I  was  unlocking  the 
door  it  passed  slowly  along  in  front. 

I  was  at  work  in  school  next  day  when  the  red-headed 
girl  who  helped  Mrs.  Phipps  with  the  housework  called  me 
to  the  telephone  and  stopped  frankly  leaning  in  the  door 
to  listen  while  I  answered.  I  knew  why  when  Boy's  ex- 
cited little  voice  came  over  the  wire. 


136  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

"Muwer" — I  could  feel  the  effort  of  his  shouting — "can 
you  go  ride  in  our  automobile  ?" 

"No,  Jackie  Boy,"  I  said,  "mother  can't  get  time  to- 
day. You  go  ride  in  the  nice  automobile." 

Boyce  paused,  apparently  for  consultation  with  some- 
one. 

"Say,"  said  the  girl  beside  me,  "you're  not  turning  down 
a  chance  for  an  automobile  ride,  are  you  ?" 

I  nodded.  Boy  was  beginning  to  go,  "Uk — uk — well, 
Muwer,  say,"  at  the  other  end  of  the  line.  His  funny, 
broken  talk  mixed  with  the  girl's  remarks  when  she  spoke 
again : 

"Well,  don't  do  it.  What  do  you  want  to  work  like  a 
nigger  for  ?  You  are  losing  your  colour  already.  Tell  'em 
you're  going — go  on — tell  'em  yes.  Then  get  into  your 
glad  rags  and  fly." 

When  she  stopped,  Boy's  tune  sounded  almost  the  same. 

" — an'  wear  the  pretty  dress  an'  the  new  hat,  Muwer. 
We're  a-goin'  to  be  at  your  school  when  (when,  Uncle  Har- 
vey?)— going  to  be  there  when  it's  four  o'clock." 

That  seemed  to  end  it.  I  should  have  to  get  excused  to 
run  home  and  dress — but  I  could  make  up  the  work. 

The  trip  up  into  the  hills  was  enjoyable,  and  after  that 
I  went  out  to  Las  Reudas  in  Harvey's  machine  occasion- 
ally, for,  unless  I  avoided  him,  we  were  apt  to  be  starting 
at  the  same  time,  since  I  now  ate  at  the  cafeteria  in  the 
basement  of  the  Cronin  Building,  and  he  dined  at  his  club, 
the  St.  Vincent,  across  the  square.  He  never  took  the 
street  that  led  past  Mrs.  Eccles's  place — though  I  was  sure 
he  went  that  way  when  he  was  alone — and  always  stopped 
at  his  own  house  and  let  me  walk  around  to  see  Boy.  It 
was  the  drug  store  at  the  corner  of  the  side  street  and  the 
Poinsettia  over  again.  I  despised  and  chafed  at  his  cau- 
tion— yet  was  obliged  to  give  it  a  low  approval.  Mrs.  Ec- 
cles  was  a  good  deal  of  a  gossip ;  she  had  told  me  stories  in 


THE  GAP  IN  THE  HEDGE  137 

plenty  about  the  Pendletons  by  this  time ;  yes,  I  had  to  ad- 
mit that  he  was  no  more  than  wise. 

As  a  girl  in  Stanleyton  I  never  had  much  of  Harvey's 
undiluted  society ;  there  were  always  other  people  about ; 
these  trips  together  gave  me  the  first  chance  to  know  him 
really.  I  would  be  tired  after  my  day's  school  work,  think- 
ing a  good  deal  about  clothes  for  myself  and  Boy;  it  was 
very  convenient  to  let  him  start  on  the  inexhaustible  sub- 
ject— himself — and  just  make  the  proper  responses  now 
and  then  to  give  him  to  understand  I  was  listening. 

He  would  talk  about  himself  endlessly — and  with  such 
heavy  earnestness ;  about  his  miserable  boyhood,  his  early 
struggles,  and  the  way  he  had,  in  his  own  opinion,  met  the 
world  single-handed  and  overcome  it.  He  told  me  a  good 
many  things  about  his  cases — business  secrets,  where  he'd 
conceal  the  name,  only  saying  carelessly,  "That's  a  thing 
you  mustn't  repeat,  Calla,"  occasionally  adding,  "Lord, 
it's  a  comfort  to  have  somebody  to  talk  to  that  you  can 
trust.  I've  never  had  a  soul."  He  never  tired  of  describ- 
ing to  me  how  he  downed  all  opponents.  I  suppose  the 
cave  man  used  to  go  home  to  the  cave  woman  and  tell  her 
how  he  just  tapped  the  bear  on  the  back  of  the  neck  and 
it  fell  dead,  or  how  easy  it  was  for  him  to  whip  a  dozen 
other  cave  men  who  came  out  after  him.  I  am  sure  the 
cave  woman  didn't  fail  to  say  "Oh"  and  "Ah"  at  the 
right  spots ;  keep  the  masculine  thing  going  with  his  reci- 
tation of  his  own  triumphs — as  seen  through  his  eyes ! 

However,  I  preferred  this  kind  of  talk  to  his  complaints 
of  Delia ;  but,  sooner  or  later,  these  always  came  in.  He 
wouldn't  be  headed  off  from  telling  how  she  ran  after  him 
before  they  were  married,  from  describing  the  manceuvres 
of  her  mother  to  land  him.  According  to  him,  their  mar- 
ried life  was  a  blank,  a  wilderness,  a  desert;  they  were 
mismated — strangers  to  each  other.  Though  I  might  be 
disposed  to  discount  this  sort  of  thing,  I  did  realise  that  it 


138  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

looked  significant  for  Delia  to  be  remaining  in  another 
county  so  long.  Three  months  it  would  take  me  to  ac- 
quire residence  in  San  Vicente  County  so  that  a  divorce 
bill  might  be  filed.  Could  it  be  that  Delia  was  gaining 
residence  in  some  other  county  for  a  similar  purpose  \  It 
was  none  of  my  business ;  I  wished  he  wouldn't  force  it  on 
my  attention ;  but,  of  course,  if  he  was  going  to  be  a  wid- 
ower for  the  second  time,  a  man  of  his  sort  would  be  al- 
ready "looking  around." 

He  had  that  other  pleasant  little  fashion  of  telling  you 
about  meals  he  had  just  eaten.  I  know  perfectly  well  that 
the  cave  man  used  to  say  to  the  long-suffering  woman,  "I 
found  a  bee  tree — honey — yum-yum-yum !"  Or  he'd  come 
home  when  the  poor  thing  was  as  hungry  as  a  wolf  and 
tell  her  how  he  dug  up  a  colony  of  lovely,  fat  bugs.  I 
realised  what  the  cave  woman's  feelings  must  have  been 
when  we'd  go  tooling  along  the  pleasant  road  toward  Las 
Reudas,  Harvey  cataloguing  steadily,  exactly,  relishingly, 
every  item  of  his  elaborate  St.  Vincent  Club  dinner.  If 
I  had  dined  at  the  basement  cafeteria,  choosing  lamb  stew 
because  it  was  cheap  and  filling,  and  finding  an  outcast 
flavor  of  goat  about  the  meat,  it  sometimes  made  me  almost 
too  grumpy  to  put  in  the  little  responses  that  were  ex- 
pected. But  one  evening,  when  I  had  missed  my  dinner 
entirely  and  he  began  to  praise  the  St.  Vincent  chef  and 
talk  about  chicken  a  la  King,  I  stopped  him  with : 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  so  much  about  eating." 

"Whyf  The  well-fed  man  looked  around  at  me,  sur- 
prised that  I  failed  to  like  this  subject,  so  agreeable  to  him. 

"Oh,  nothing;  only  I  haven't  had  a  bite  since  twelve 
o'clock." 

"You  haven't  ?"  He  gazed  at  me  as  though  I  had  been 
a  perishing  survivor  of  an  Arctic  expedition.  A  man's 
horror  at  irregular  meals  will  always  remain  a  mystery  to 
a  woman.  "Since  twelve  o'clock — and  you  hard  at  work 
in  school !  WeTl  stop  at  Burmeister's  and  take  some  stuff 


THE  GAP  IX  THE  HEDGE  139 

up.  You  can  fix  a  little  dinner  for  yourself  at  my  house, 
can't  you  ?" 

"Oh,  I  could,"  I  hesitated;  "but  I'd  better  wait  and 
have  something  to  eat  when  I  get  back  to  town." 

Harvey  was  not  listening.  He  stopped  the  car  in  front 
of  the  beautiful  little  plate-glass-windowed  Burmeister 
branch  store  at  the  foot  of  the  Las  Reudas  hill  and,  with- 
out asking  me  what  he  should  buy  for  my  dinner,  got  down 
and  went  in,  coming  back  presently,  a  salesman  follow- 
ing to  put  a  well-filled  tray-box  into  the  tonneau.  Plainly 
Harvey  was  an  experienced  marketer. 

"You  think  that'll  be  all  P  the  white-aproned  boy  asked 
as  we  were  ready  to  drive  away. 

"Yes — it'll  do  for  to-night,"  Harvey  replied,  and  we 
were  off. 

I  love  to  cook — it's  one  of  my  few  little  talents.  And 
Delia's  kitchen  was  a  dear  delight  of  a  place,  with  its 
white  tiling  and  every  contrivance  for  making  work  light 
and  easy.  Poor  Delia !  As  I  handled  her  dainty  little 
saucepans,  and  watched  Harvey  solemnly  peeling  and 
slicing  and  preparing  things,  I  wondered  acutely  what  she 
was  really  planning  to  do.  Would  she  come  back  to  use 
these  clever  kettles  and  patent  beaters  and  cutters  again  ? 
Or  was  she  going  to  divorce  Harvey  ?  It  made  me  feel 
almost  as  though  I  were  trying  to  pry  into  her  personal 
affairs,  and  I  put  the  question  out  of  my  mind.  It  was  a 
good  dinner  that  we  cooked.  I  don't  know  where  I  got 
the  impression  that  it  was  I  who  inspired  Harvey's  ef- 
forts. A  more  suspicious  person  would  have  seen  that  he 
showed  plenty  of  practice.  When  it  came  to  eating,  he 
joined  me,  and  praised  everything  as  though  I  alone  had 
been  responsible  for  the  excellence,  repeating  again  and 
again,  "Say,  you  can  cook  for  me !" 

As  we  were  cleaning  up  and  putting  things  away,  he 
called  my  attention  to  the  fact  that  there  was  plenty  of 


140  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

stuff  for  another  dinner ;  before  I  knew  it,  I  had  let  him 
assume  that  we  were  going  to  cook  and  eat  that  dinner  the 
next  evening.  We  did,  Harvey  adding  a  beautiful  thick 
steak,  which  he  brought  out  from  town  for  the  purpose  and 
broiled  himself  in  a  fashion  of  his  own.  He  was  on  his 
very  best  behaviour;  no  possible  exception  could  be  taken 
to  anything  he  said  or  did  or  even  looked ;  but  through  it 
all  there  was  a  sense  of  uneasiness  at  the  back  of  my  head. 
In  spite  of  this,  we  were  quite  gay  as  we  washed  up  after 
the  meal,  when  a  rap  suddenly  sounded  on  the  kitchen 
door.  Harvey  was  at  work  at  the  sink,  so  I  opened  the 
door.  A  Chinaman  stood  there  looking  at  me.  He  was 
a  healthy,  round-faced  fellow,  the  pink  showing  through 
the  yellow  on  his  cheeks. 

"Hello !"  he  said,  and  grinned  familiarly. 

"What  is  it  ?"  I  asked.     "Who  did  you  want  to  see  ?" 

Without  answering,  he  pushed  past  and  went  over  to 
the  sink. 

"Hello,  Wo  Far!"  said  Harvey,  looking  up  from  the 
skillet  he  was  cleaning.  "What  do  you  think  you  want  ?'' 

The  Chinaman  just  stood  looking  coolly  about  at  every- 
thing in  the  room  with  that  odd,  half-jeering  air  that  they 
have  sometimes.  He  finally  announced  that  he  had  come 
to  fetch  Harvey's  Oriental  dressing-gown  away  to  be 
mended. 

"All  right,  Wo — you  know  where  it  hangs,"  Harvey 
said,  and  the  man  went  upstairs.  He  came  back  soon, 
the  robe  across  his  arm,  and  stopped  again  in  the  kitchen. 

"You  cook  ?"  he  asked ;  and  then,  grinning,  "No  good, 
I  think."  He  gave  me  another  look  as  he  went  out,  laugh- 
ing— a  look  that  made  my  face  burn. 

If  Harvey  noticed  it,  he  didn't  show  it.  I  said  nothing 
to  him,  but  got  away  as  soon  as  I  could,  and  when  next 
I  had  an  invitation  to  go  out  in  the  machine,  I  told  him 
flat  that  I  never  would  again.  He  didn't  ask  for  any  ex- 
planation. What  he  said  was : 


THE  GAP  IN  THE  HEDGE  141 

"Oh — if  you  feel  that  way.  I  think  you're  foolish — 
and  some  other  things — but  you're  the  one  to  say." 

I  suppose  the  "other  things"  meant  mostly  ingratitude, 
but  I  couldn't  help  it ;  it  was  just  that  way.  As  long  as  I 
didn't  have  any  divorce  and  was  in  fear  that  Boy  could  be 
taken  away  from  me,  I  felt  obliged  to  overlook  things — 
his  attitude  toward  me,  his  continual  reflections  on  Delia — 
but  with  the  approach  of  freedom  and  security  in  this  mat- 
ter, I  began  to  feel  independent.  And  I  didn't  dodge 
meeting  Harvey  when  I  was  going  out  to  Las  Reudas.  I 
would  nod  to  him  if  I  encountered  him  in  the  hall,  or  as 
he  stood  cranking  up  his  machine,  and  walk  past  him  down 
to  the  corner  to  wait  for  my  car.  He  didn't  seem  to  re- 
sent my  attitude ;  he  was  just  as  friendly  as  ever.  I  think 
he  liked  me  all  the  better. 

So  the  days  went  by.  Harvey  came  back  from  those 
week-end  absences  of  his  with  a  grudge  at  all  the  world, 
and  a  belief  that  it  was  somebody's  duty  to  smooth  him 
down.  On  two  of  these  Sundays  I  had  Boy  in  at  the  Poin- 
settia  with  me.  Nothing  was  said  against  it,  and  with  the 
friendlier  footing  there,  he  was  even  noticed  pleasantly 
and  petted  a  bit  by  the  Martins.  The  necessary  term  of 
residence  in  San  Vicente  County  was  nearly  over.  Har- 
vey had  done  some  shrewd  bargaining  with  Oliver,  the 
details  of  which  I  need  not  repeat ;  got  the  understanding 
that  my  husband  would  not  contest  the  suit,  and  even  the 
promise  of  a  little  money,  paid  over  for  a  cow  my  mother 
had  given  to  Boyce  as  a  calf.  She  was  a  Jersey,  and  the 
allowance  was  to  be  a  hundred  dollars,  Oliver  promising, 
characteristically,  to  pay  it  as  he  could,  twenty-five  dollars 
at  a  time. 

Then,  one  Friday  afternoon,  when  Harvey  was  due  to 
be  leaving  for  the  week-end,  he  unexpectedly  called  me  on 
the  'phone  at  school  and  asked  me  to  stop  in  at  his  office  on 
my  way  out.  His  voice  sounded  so  solemn  and  queer  that 
I  asked  him  if  there  was  anything  the  matter. 


142  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

"I'd  rather  break  it  to  you  here,"  he  said,  in  reply. 
"Don't  fail  to  come  in." 

I  just  grabbed  my  hat  and  ran,  and  I  got  into  Harvey's 
office  all  out  of  breath. 

"Sit  down,  Calla,"  he  said,  in  the  muffled  tones  of  an 
undertaker. 

I  couldn't  move  after  he  spoke  to  me.  I  was  rigid  with 
terror.  It  must  be  about  Boyce. 

"Tell  me,  quick !"  I  whispered. 

A  long,  thick  envelope  lay  on  his  desk.  He  picked  it 
up  and  held  it  toward  me. 

"It  is  my  painful  duty,"  he  said,  "to  break  the  news  to 
you  that — that " 

Things  had  begun  to  whirl.  Was  I  going  to  faint  ?  He 
reached  forward  suddenly,  took  me  by  the  shoulders  and 
swung  me  into  a  chair. 

" — that  your  divorce  is  granted,"  he  crowed,  trium- 
phantly. And  this  was  Harvey's  idea  of  a  joke ! 

"Did  I  scare  you  ?"  he  asked,  as  I  sat  there  trembling, 
trying  to  pull  myself  together,  and  not  see  things  all  jig- 
gling and  falling  down  around  me.  I  hadn't  a  word  to 
answer  him.  I  couldn't  be  angry.  He  thought  he  was 
smart.  He  was  laughing  in  the  most  heartfelt  manner  at 
his  own  wit,  and  apologising,  too,  for  having  carried  it 
quite  so  far. 

"Never  mind,"  I  said.  "I'm  so  thankful.  It's  all 
settled,  is  it,  Harvey?  Nothing  can  go  wrong  with  it 
now  ?" 

"This  is  the  interlocutory  decree,"  he  explained.  "It 
isn't  made  final  for  a  year.  If  you  get  married  inside  of 
twelve  months,  you'll  be  committing  bigamy."  He  was 
still  jocular.  "I'm  obliged  to  warn  you.  Otherwise  your 
decree  holds  in  every  respect." 

"Boy?" 

"You've  got  complete  control  of  him,"  Harvey  nodded. 
"Nobody  can  touch  him  without  your  consent." 


THE  GAP  IN  THE  HEDGE  143 

I  sat  and  looked  at  the  floor  until  I  could  get  voice 
enough  to  speak  again;  then  said: 

"Harvey,  I  thank  you  more  than  words  can  tell,"  and 
jumped  up  and  started  for  the  door. 

"Hey !    Where  you  going  ?"  he  asked,  wonderingly. 

"Straight  out  to  Las  Keudas  to  have  a  look  at  my  son," 
I  said.  "I  wish  I  hadn't  promised  to  let  him  go  with  Mrs. 
Eccles  to  her  daughter's  over  at  Corinth.  I'll  have  to 
hurry  to  catch  them  before  they  start." 

"Say!"  Harvey  was  suddenly  natural  and  like  him- 
self. "I  forgot  all  about  celebrating  this.  Of  course  we 
ought  to — and  here's  this  banquet  of  the  bar  association 
on  my  hands — and  a  speech  to  make.  If  it  wasn't  for 
that,  we'd  sure  have  a  big  time  this  evening." 

I  halted  reluctantly  near  the  door.  He  considered  a 
moment. 

"Shucks!"  he  said.  "I  won't  see  you  again  for  two 
weeks.  I'm  leaving  with  that  bunch  of  solons  in  the  morn- 
ing for  their  Yosemite  trip." 

"Then  I'll  bid  you  good-bye  now,"  I  said,  stepping 
back  to  offer  my  hand;  "and  oh,  thank  you  again  and 
again." 

We  shook  hands.  Harvey  looked  at  me  rather  wist- 
fully, and  hesitated: 

"Say,  Calla,  as  long  as  you're  going  to  be  out  there  this 
evening,  I  wonder  if  it  would  be  too  much  to  ask  of  you  to 
stop  in  at  my  place  and  give  me  the  once  over.  You  see, 
I've  got  that  speech  to  make — it's  full  dress — and  I'm  no 
good  when  it  comes  to  an  evening  tie.  Will  you,  Calla  ? 
I  could  bring  you  back  to  town  in  the  machine." 

Why  hadn't  I  gone  out  quickly  in  the  first  place?  I 
just  couldn't  refuse  him. 

"Well,"  I  agreed,  reluctantly,  "if  I'm  out  there  that 
late." 

"But  I'm  not  going  to  be  late,"  Harvey  followed  me  to 
the  door  to  insist.  "I'm  closing  up  here  right  now.  Please 


144  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

do  come  in — you  might  give  me  a  word  of  help  about  the 
speech." 

I  still  had  to  go  up  and  put  my  desk  in  order,  and  get 
some  carbon  paper  to  take  home  for  Mr,  Dale's  Saturday 
work.  All  through  it  I  was  swinging  to  a  realisation  of 
this  new  thing  that  had  come  to  me — actual  freedom.  I 
hadn't  known  how  it  would  make  me  feel;  how  great  the 
difference  would  be.  When  I  got  out  to  Las  Reudas  late 
and  found  Mrs.  Eccles  had  missed  a  train  waiting  for  me, 
and  was  cross  about  it,  for  the  first  time  she  couldn't  make 
me  feel  reproved.  I  hugged  Boy,  whispered  to  him  that  I 
loved  him  ten  million  bushels,  and  let  him  go.  The  San 
Vicente,  Las  Reudas  &  Corinth  trains  ran  an  hour  apart, 
so  that  it  was  almost  night  when  I  got  to  the  Watkins 
place,  and  saw  Harvey's  car  out  in  front.  The  house  was 
dark;  the  porch  light  not  on;  but  the  front  door  was  ajar, 
and  at  the  sound  of  my  step  Harvey  called  from  above  for 
me  to  come  up. 

I  went  slowly,  feeling  a  fool,  and  stopped  in  the  upper 
hall,  asking: 

"Where  are  you  ?    Where  do  you  want  me  ?" 

"Out  here."    His  voice  came  from  the  sleeping  porch. 

I  went  on  through  the  bedroom,  with  its  twin  brass  beds, 
Harvey's  business  suit  that  he  had  taken  off  flung  about, 
the  room  flaring  with  light,  and  stopped  in  the  door  that 
led  to  the  sleeping  porch.  Harvey  was  getting  a  little  par- 
cel from  the  table  that  stood  at  the  head  of  his  bed  there. 
His  blue  silk  pajamas  lay  on  the  foot  of  the  cot,  ready  for 
him  when  he  should  return  from  the  banquet,  late.  He 
was  in  his  dress  suit. 

"I'd  about  given  you  up,"  he  groaned,  with  his  back  to 
me;  then  turned,  pulling  open  the  package,  and  drawing 
out  some  white  lawn  ties.  "I  never  could  get  one  of  these 
things  to  look  decent.  You  tie  it  for  me,  Calla." 

"I  don't  know  whether  I'm  an  expert,"  I  hesitated. 

"You  can  do  it  better  than  I  can,"  he  urged. 


THE  GAP  IN  THE  HEDGE  145 

Harvey  Watkins  was  not  the  kind  of  man  who  can  wear 
evening  clothes  well  or  becomingly,  but  this  was  evidently 
a  secret  from  Harvey.  I  suppose  he  had  them  on  three  or 
four  times  a  year,  for  grand  occasions,  and  they  made  him 
feel  as  pretty  and  as  worked  up  as  a  girl  going  to  a  party. 

He  handed  me  one  of  the  new  ties.  I  took  it,  and 
glanced  at  the  rumpled  one  that  straggled  across  his  broad 
expanse  of  dress  shirt-front. 

"You'll  have  to  have  another  collar,"  I  said.  "You've 
mussed  that  one  buttoning  it." 

He  pulled  one  out  of  the  parcel. 

"I  always  spoil  two  or  three.  You  button  it,  Calla,"  and 
he  hauled  off  the  soiled  one. 

It  was  funny  to  see  how  helpless  the  sheer  excitement 
of  getting  dressed  for  his  party  made  him.  He  took  hold 
of  the  lapels  of  his  coat,  gravely  easing  it  back  out  of  my 
way,  craning  his  neck  a  little  as  I  stood  on  tiptoe  for  the 
awkward  job.  I  had  finally  got  the  collar  on,  the  tie 
around  it,  and  was  beginning  on  the  bow  when  I  realised 
all  at  once  that  Harvey  had  shifted  his  interest.  His  eyes, 
which  had  been  wandering,  so  that  I  had  felt  sure  he  was 
conning  over  his  speech,  were  fixed  intently  on  mine.  The 
hands  that  held  his  coat  back  were  relaxing;  one  of  them 
let  go  entirely. 

"Calla !"     There  was  a  tremor  in  his  voice. 

"Keep  that  lapel  out  of  my  way,"  I  said  sharply,  and 
hurried.  What  had  made  me  maddest  that  night  at  the 
roadhouse  was  the  realisation  that  Harvey  wasn't  trying 
to  behave;  that  he  had  deliberately  let  himself  go.  Now 
I  could  see  the  constraint  he  used,  and  it  scared  me.  I 
jerked  the  bow  into  hasty  shape  and  backed  off. 

"There,  that's  all  right,"  I  said,  and,  with  a  sudden 
inspiration,  "I'll  get  you  a  flower  for  your  buttonhole." 

"What's  your  hurry  ?"  Harvey  tried  to  speak  jocosely, 
as  he  half  blocked  my  way  to  the  door. 

"I've  got  to  get  home,"  I  said,  shortly.     "I'm  doing 


146  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

some  typing  for  Mr.  Dale  to-night,"  and  slipped  around 
him,  calling  back  as  I  ran  down  the  stairs,  "I'll  wait  with 
the  flower  on  the  porch." 

Out  on  the  lawn  in  the  moonlight  I  drew  a  free  breath. 
I  crossed  to  where  the  gardenias  grew  near  that  gap  in  the 
pittosporum  through  which  I  had  once  seen  Pendleton  ly- 
ing on  his  sleeping  porch  reading.  As  I  passed  the 
bungalow  this  evening  it  was  all  dark;  he  must  still  be 
away. 

It  wasn't  easy  to  find  the  gardenias;  the  moonlight  on 
the  leaves  made  them  look  like  blossoms ;  and  I  wanted  to 
choose  a  nice,  full-blown  one.  I  was  bent  close  down  over 
them  when  a  sound  in  the  Pendleton  bungalow  startled 
me ;  a  door  opened ;  a  step  came  out  on  the  sleeping  porch. 
Every  flower  on  the  gardenia  bush  stood  out  in  a  blaze  of 
light  as  someone  snapped  on  the  electric  there,  and  I  pulled 
one.  But  if  I  raised  up  I  should  be  in  plain  sight  of  who- 
ever that  was.  While  I  crouched,  uncertain,  almost  ready 
to  drop  on  hands  and  knees  and  creep  away,  a  man's  voice 
spoke  on  the  porch — and  a  woman's  answered. 

My  muscles  jerked  me  up  straight;  I  stared  through 
the  gap  in  the  hedge,  into  the  face  of — Miss  Eugenia 
Chandler ! 

Yes,  Miss  Chandler,  but  as  I  had  never  seen  her, 
flushed,  laughing,  animated,  all  seductive  feminine  grace 
— and  in  negligee.  Twisted  alluringly  around  her  slim 
figure  was  a  delicate,  rose-coloured  robe  I  had  re-hemmed 
and  altered ;  my  fingers  had  sewed  the  little  rosebuds  down 
by  the  ear  on  that  boudoir  cap  that  covered  her  charm- 
ingly dishevelled  head. 

She  saw  me  at  the  same  instant;  her  face  changed 
frightfully ;  with  a  look  that  pierced  my  heart  she  threw 
up  a  sheltering  arm  between  us.  Her  cry  brought  the  man 
around  to  stare  at  me,  too.  It  was  young  Pendleton. 
There  we  stood,  I  on  my  side  of  the  hedge,  wishing  the 
earth  would  open  and  swallow  me;  they  on  theirs — dis- 


THE  GAP  IN  THE  HEDGE  147 

covered — exposed.  Then  Miss  Chandler's  other  hand 
went  groping  back  and  switched  off  the  lights. 

I  crawled  back  to  the  house.  I  sat  on  the  steps  a  while 
to  get  hold  of  myself,  cringing  at  remembrance  of  Mrs. 
Eccles's  fling  about  Pendleton  and  his  loose  women.  In  a 
small  town  there  are  always  two  or  three  mysteriously 
shameful  women  whom  the  village  girls  regard  as  of  dif- 
ferent flesh  and  blood,  outcast  beings  with  whom  they 
could  have  nothing  in  common.  Even  Milt  Stanley's  wife, 
after  her  name  got  so  bad,  had  been  a  person  that  my 
mother  could  exchange  a  few  words  with,  but  I  must  just 
dodge  speaking  to  her  if  I  could,  or  merely  nod  at  her. 
There  I  sat  and  held  my  head  and  tried  to  think.  Miss 
Chandler — my  Miss  Chandler — well-born,  well-bred — 
cool  and  distainful  with  a  lot  of  common,  decent,  uninter- 
esting folks — the  girl  who  had  been  so  lavishly  kind  to  me, 
was — that!  It  was  no  use.  I  couldn't  get  any  realisa- 
tion of  it.  I  almost  forgot  about  Harvey  till  he  called  to 
me  from  above,  in  what  tried  to  be  a  very  careless  tone : 

"That  you,  Calla?" 

"Yes."  Instinctively  I  guarded  my  voice.  All  at  once 
I  was  in  a  fever  to  be  off,  to  get  home  where  I  could  be 
alone.  "I've  got  the  flower  for  your  coat.  Do  hurry !" 

He  waited  quite  a  while,  hoping,  perhaps,  that  I  would 
bring  the  flower  up.  Evidently  he  hadn't  quite  the  face 
to  suggest  that,  for  at  last  he  came  slowly  down  in  the 
dark. 

Memories  of  a  thousand  little  things  all  through  my 
companionship  with  Miss  Chandler  were  starting  up  in 
my  mind,  rawly  significant.  Terribly  taken  up  with  them, 
I  wasn't  disposed  to  waste  much  worry  on  Harvey  and  his 
actions.  I  rather  hated  to  have  him  light  the  hall  light, 
but  I  told  him  to  do  it,  kept  outside  till  he  had,  then  went 
in  quickly  and  put  the  flower  on  his  coat. 

"What's  the  matter  ?"  he  asked,  with  a  swift  glance  to- 
ward the  door.  "What's  happened  ?" 


148  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

P 

"Nothing,"  I  answered,  short  and  sharp.  "Let's  get 
away  from  here." 

"Did  something  frighten  you?"  Harvey  was  following 
as  I  led  the  way  out. 

"No.  It's  nothing.  I've  got  to  get  back  to  town."  I 
felt  Harvey's  breath  on  my  cheek  as  he  whispered  close 
to  my  ear : 

"To  Dale?" 

"To  my  work."  I  hurried  down  the  walk.  At  the  curb 
by  the  machine  I  faced  him,  and  added,  "Harvey,  can  I 
ride  home  with  you  ?  If  not,  there's  the  street  car." 

"All  right — all  right."  Harvey  dropped  his  head.  He 
made  no  protest  as  I  got  into  the  tonneau.  How  easy  it 
would  have  been  to  do  this  at  any  time !  He  cranked  up, 
got  in,  and  there  was  hardly  a  word  said  between  us  till 
he  drove  the  car  straight  up  before  the  Poinsettia  and  let 
me  out. 


CHAPTEK  IX 

MISS  CHANDLER'S  POINT  OF  VIEW 

INSTEAD  of  going  straight  in  when  Haivey  left  me  on 
the  steps  of  the  Poinsettia,  I  turned  off  at  a  right  angle, 
went  down  the  arbour  and  rapped  on  the  bungalow  door. 
Mr.  Dale  yelled  at  me  to  come  in;  I  realised  that  I  was 
late  and  he  was  mad  about  it.  Well,  he  was  due  to  be 
madder  yet;  I  stood  there  on  the  step  till  he  came  and 
opened  the  door,  and  then  said,  without  a  word  of  preface 
or  apology: 

"I  can't  work  to-night." 

"Sick  ?"  His  tone  was  anxious,  but  I  knew  the  anxiety 
was  all  for  the  job  in  hand. 

"No"  I  shook  my  head;  "I  just  can't  work."  And  I 
went,  and  left  him  staring  after  me. 

I  didn't  sleep  that  night.  Miss  Chandler  had  left  the 
Poinsettia  Thursday  evening;  she  would  be  back  some 
time  at  the  first  of  the  week ;  when  I  tried  to  think  how  I 
should  meet  her,  what  she  would  say,  I  just  sort  of  went  to 
pieces — I  couldn't  imagine  it.  In  all  the  turmoil  of  my 
thoughts  the  thing  that  continually  came  uppermost  was 
a  wish  to  have  her  know  that  her  secret  was  safe  with  me, 
that  I  would  as  soon  hurt  myself  as  hurt  her.  I  wanted 
her  to  be  assured  of  that,  yet  shrank  from  the  idea  of  see- 
ing her  to  give  her  the  assurance.  I  thought  of  writing  her 
a  little  note  to  meet  her  on  her  return,  but  the  things  I 
had  to  say  weren't  safe  to  put  on  paper.  They'd  have  to 
be  said — and  forgotten. 

Through  it  all  I'd  come  back  again  and  again  to  those 
clothes  hanging  in  my  closet.  I  got  up  and  switched  on 
the  light  to  look  at  them.  The  sight  put  me  at  my  wit's 
end.  I  had  got  them  for  about  a  tenth  of  their  value  in 

149 


150  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

sewing.  They  were  in  the  nature  of  a  gift.  The  little 
manicure  set  was  given  me  out  and  out,  and  now  her  care- 
less description  of  the  way  it  had  been  bought  came  back 
to  me  with  unbearable  significance.  By  morning  I  knew 
that  I  never  could  put  on  the  raisin-coloured  outfit  again 
— and  wondered  how  I  was  going  to  get  along  with- 
out it. 

I  couldn't  go  back  to  the  old  blue  serge — I  oughtn't  to. 
To  succeed  you've  got  to  look  successful.  How  about  that 
cow  money  ?  Twenty-five  dollars  of  it  might  come  in  any 
time.  On  my  way  to  school  there  was  a  big  plate-glass 
window  with  some  very  pleasing  suits  and  blouses  in  it 
and  a  card  that  said,  "Your  credit  is  good  here."  I  got 
on  my  nat,  hurried  down  there,  and  found  a  better  suit 
than  any  I'd  seen  in  the  windows,  a  soft,  dead-leaf  brown, 
delicately  relieved  with  a  touch  of  colour  and  lace  in  the 
blouse.  The  price,  of  course,  was  more  than  it  would  have 
been  for  cash.  Then  we  came  to  the  question  of  payment. 
They  asked  me  where  I  lived,  where  I  worked,  and  what 
my  salary  was.  Well,  if  I  had  to  be  hung,  it  shouldn't  be 
for  a  lamb. 

"The  Poinsettia— McBride,  McBride  &  Watkins,"  I 
said,  calmly,  and  mentioned  the  salary  Harvey  had 
promised. 

I  carried  the  suit  home  myself. 

Mrs.  Eccles  was  bringing  Boy  in  to  the  Poinsettia  at 
noon.  I  found  her  in  my  room  when  I  got  back.  She 
was  about  the  last  person  I  should  have  chosen  to  see  just 
then,  but  when  I  had  Boy  striding  around  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  shouting  out  the  news  of  Fairy  and  the 
ducks,  I  felt  for  the  first  time  that  all  my  world  wasn't  col- 
lapsing and  falling  into  chaos.  I  had  to  hurry  them  off 
because  I  was  due  at  Mr.  Dale's. 

My  work  with  him  went  hard.  He  had  a  perfect  right 
to  complain  of  me — and  made  full  use  of  it  We  finally 
quit  in  a  sort  of  squabble,  he  cross  and  I  ready  to  cry, 


MISS  CHANDLER'S  POINT  OF  VIEW      151 

barely  two-thirds  of  the  work  done,  the  rest  going  over  to 
Sunday  morning. 

"We  won't  keep  on/'  h'e  said,  when  it  got  so  dusky  I 
could  hardly  see.  "If  you're  this  by  daylight,  God  forbid 
we  should  tackle  it  by  electric !  We'll  quit — and  pray  for 
better  to-morrow." 

Sunday  morning  I  had  prayed  all  right,  but  the  work 
went  worse  than  ever.  I  could  see  it  made  him  angry 
enough  to  shake  me  that  I  didn't  get  down  into  the  collar 
and  pull,  as  he  put  it.  How  could  I  concentrate  on  the 
keyboard  when  my  mind  was  flying  off  at  a  tangent  every 
two  minutes  ?  Had  Miss  Chandler  got  back  yet  ?  Should 
I  find  her  there  in  the  house  when  I  went  in?  How  was 
I  going  to  meet  her  ?  What  was  I  going  to  do  ?  Could  I 
help  her  ?  I  was  as  reckless  about  trying  to  as  a  man  who 
couldn't  swim  and  who  jumps  into  the  water  to  rescue  a 
drowning  person.  It  never  occurred  to  me  that  I  might 
be  pulled  down  in  the  struggle.  The  impulse  I  had  to 
leave  the  Poinsettia,  to  get  out  now — to-day — and  look 
for  new  quarters,  was  sheer  cowardice — a  shrinking  from 
seeing  her  hurt  and  humiliated  by  the  sight  of  me. 

It  was  about  three  o'clock  when  Mr.  Dale  and  I  stum- 
bled to  the  place  where  he  said  shortly  that  he  could  finish 
now  himself,  and  I  might  go — to  the  devil,  I  thought  he 
really  wanted  to  add.  I  was  halfway  through  the  arbour 
that  led  out  front  when  I  saw  a  taxi  glide  up.  I  held  back 
the  vines;  the  driver  got  down,  a  suit-case  in  his  hand, 
opened  the  door,  and  out  stepped  Miss  Chandler.  They 
went  in ;  I  lingered  there  till  the  man  came  back  and  drove 
away.  Yet,  when  I  finally  did  slip  inside,  her  door  still 
stood  open,  and  she  called  to  me.  I  pretended  not  to  hear, 
and  went  past  almost  on  a  run.  I  had  hardly  got  my 
breath  from  the  stairs  when  there  was  a  tap  on  my  door. 
It  was  Orma,  all  of  a  smile,  eating  from  an  opened  box  of 
candy. 

"Miss  Chandler's  got  back — gee,  she's  one  peach  es- 


152  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

quire !  Have  a  piece  of  candy  ?  She  said  for  you  to  run 
down  to  her  room  a  minute." 

It  had  come.  I  shut  my  eyes — and  opened  them  again. 
Around  me  were  the  shabby  walls  that  had  grown  to  seem 
home.  Downstairs  was  the  one  woman  in  all  San  Vicente 
who  had  really  cared  whether  I  lived  or  died.  Mrs.  Tip- 
ton  was  kind  enough ;  I  liked  her Oh,  there's  no  use 

trying  to  sort  out  the  reason  you  feel  bound  to  one  person 
and  not  to  another.  It  isn't  gratitude ;  it  isn't  even  having 
tastes  in  common.  Miss  Chandler  and  I  didn't  have  that ; 
but  some  real  tenderness  there  must  have  been,  for  I  felt 
myself  fairly  drowning  in  pity,  anxiety,  the  helpless  desire 
to  help — to  do  something  for  her. 

I  got  as  far  as  the  lower  hall,  facing  her  outside  door, 
and  found  it  ajar.  She  herself,  in  the  little  entry,  pulling 
down  a  robe  to  replace  her  street  dress,  spoke  to  me  with- 
out turning  her  head : 

"Come  in — I've  got  something  to  say  to  you." 

She  had  something  to  say  to  me!  That,  and  her  tone, 
stopped  me  like  a  shot.  Then  I  followed  her  in,  braced  for 
something  different  from  what  I  had  expected.  We  didn't 
look  squarely  at  each  other,  but  I  realised  that  I  was  the 
scared  one.  She  pushed  toward  me  with  her  foot  the  chair 
I  liked — a  little  mahogany  rocker  that  had  been  her 
mother's — got  into  the  robe,  and  went  to  the  dress  closet 
for  her  slippers.  I  stood  glancing  about  at  the  sober,  rich, 
luxurious  furnishings.  For  two  days,  whatever  I  looked 
at,  I  had  been  seeing  this  room — seeing  myself  go  into  it ; 
then  breaking  off  in  terror  of  what  would  be  said  when  I 
got  here. 

"Sit  down — sit  down,"  her  voice  called,  as  her  pumps 
clattered  to  the  closet  floor.  "What  are  you  so  solemn 
about  ?" 

At  the  moment  I  couldn't;  I  laid  my  hand  on  the  chair 
back  and  with  an  effort  faced  her  as  she  came  out.  Now 
that  I  did  look  directly  at  her,  I  saw  that  a  little  dull  red 


"TKUST  YOU?"  SHE  SAT  UP  SUDDENLY  FROM  HER 
LOLLING  POSITION.  "WELL — HOW  ABOUT  YOU? 
DO  YOU  FEEL  THAT  YOU  CAN  TRUST  ME?" 


MISS  CHANDLER'S  POINT  OF  VIEW       153 

glowed  under  her  hard,  defiant  eyes;  that  slim,  elegant 
figure  of  hers  was  drawn  up  tense  as  she  pulled  the  robe 
around  it.  Oh,  I  wished  she  wouldn't  take  it  like  this ! 

"Please  don't,"  I  choked. 

"Don't  what  ?" 

She  dropped  down  sidewise,  tucking  one  foot  up  under 
her,  leaning  back  over  the  great  cushioned  arm  of  her 
chair,  as  I  had  so  often  seen  her,  posed  like  a  Bacchante 
just  flung  down  from  the  dance. 

"Don't  tell  me  anything.  I'd  rather  not  know.  You 
can  trust  me  without  that." 

"Trust  you  ?"  She  sat  up  suddenly  from  her  lolling 
position.  "Well — how  about  you  ?  Do  you  feel  that  you 
can  trust  me  ?" 

A  moment  I  gaped,  stupid.  Then  in  a  flash  I  saw  what 
she  was  driving  at.  Yet,  strangely,  even  this  didn't  seem 
to  matter  very  much.  It  was  only  human — this  trying  to 
pull  another  down,  to  make  her  own  case  look  better. 

"You're  mistaken,"  I  began. 

Her  teeth  came  together  with  a  click.  She  leaned  for- 
ward and  stared  at  me  savagely. 

"You're  not  going  to  put  up  a  front  with  me — with 
me — are  you?" 

"No,"  I  floundered;  "never  mind  about  me.  My  little 
boy  boards  out  there,  you  know — with  Mrs.  Eccles,  just 
back  of — on  Fern  street.  I'd  been  to  see  him.  I- ' 

"Gallic  Baird,  do  you  mean  to  deny  that  you  were  at 
the  Watkins  house  when  Al  Pendleton  and  I  saw  you 
through  the  hedge  ?" 

"I'm  not  denying  anything,"  I  said.  "I  really  went  out 
to  see  Boy,  and  then  I  stopped  in  at — Harvey  asked  me — 
I  told  you  Harvey  Watkins  was  an  old  friend  and  going 
to  give  me  a  position.  Friday  evening  I'd  just " 

Miss  Chandler  sank  back  with  a  little  breath  that  was 
half  laughter,  half  relief. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "then  you  don't  deny  it  ?" 


154  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

This  was  so  different  from  anything  I  could  have  imag- 
ined, it  stung  me  to  retort. 

"I'm  not  answerable  to  you ;  I  don't  have  to  justify  my- 
self to  you — if  I  tried,  you  wouldn't  believe  me.  Orma 
said  you  wanted  me  to  come  down  here.  I  came  because 
I  supposed  you  wanted " 

"To  beg  you  to  keep  still  about  what  you'd  seen — eh  \ 
But  when  we  come  to  what  I  saw — nothing  doing !"  She 
flung  her  hand  round  in  front  of  my  face  and  snapped  her 
fingers.  I  had  never  seen  her  do  a  coarse  thing  before. 
"I  was  on  one  side  of  the  hedge  with  a  man — you  were  on 
the  other  with " 

My  face  was  flaming.  Hers  was  pale,  as  always,  except 
for  those  two  unsual  spots  of  dull  red.  It  was  my  turn  to 
interrupt. 

"If  you  keep  on  talking  to  me  that  way — I'll  go."  I 
dropped  my  hand  from  the  chair  back  and  half  turned  to 
the  door. 

"No,  you  won't !"  She  shot  the  words  at  me.  "You'll 
stay  right  here  in  this  room  till  you  and  I  come  to  some 
sort  of  understanding.  Sit  down,  why  don't  you  ?  Oh — 
too  virtuous  to  sit  down  in  my  room  ?  Well,  you  certainly 
have  nerve!" 

"Why  are  you  so  angry?"  I  said,  stupidly.  "I  don't 
set  myself  up  to  judge  you." 

"Cut  that  short !"  she  cried.  "I  can't  take  very  much 
of  it — from  you." 

"No,"  I  said,  in  despair,  "there's  no  use  to  talk.  You'll 
never  have  to  take  anything  from  me  again." 

She  seemed  to  notice  for  the  first  time  my  new  dress. 
A  sudden  change  came  over  her.  She  swallowed  nervously, 
and  half  whispered : 

"I  believe  you're  in  earnest.  Well,  you're  a  fool  to 
quarrel  with  me,  anyhow." 

"Oh,"  I  cried,  miserably,  "I'm  not  quarrelling  with  you. 
I've  been  almost  crazy  ever  since  Friday  evening — scared 


MISS  CHANDLER'S  POINT  OF  VIEW       155 

to  death.  Suppose  someone  else  had  seen  what  I  did  ?  If 
you  think  of  nothing  but  the  risk " 

"That's  so  funny — for  you  to  say."  Miss  Chandler 
laughed.  When  had  I  ever  heard  her  laugh  aloud! 
"You're  the  most  reckless  creature  I  ever  knew.  If  I  man- 
aged my  affairs  as  you  do  yours " 

"You  have  a  right  to  criticise  me  there,"  I  said. 

"I  guess  I  have — coming  here  to  the  Poinsettia — using 
Joe  Ed's  room." 

"Yes — I  know  now  that  seemed  suspicious  to  those 
women  downstairs." 

Again  Miss  Chandler  laughed.  I  seemed  to  be  making 
myself  very  amusing. 

"Well,  how  about  Joe  Tipton  ?" 

"How  about  him  ?"  I  echoed  like  an  idiot. 

"Yes — how  about  him?"    She  spoke  impatiently. 

It  would  have  been  too  silly  to  tell  of  the  few  little  let- 
ters I'd  had  from  Joe  Ed.  I  didn't  want  her  making  some- 
thing wrong  of  them,  and  of  his  perfectly  innocent,  boy- 
ish admiration.  I  just  told  her,  as  I  had  Harvey,  that  he 
seemed  like  a  child  to  me,  and  was  wandering  and  maun- 
dering on  about  my  bitter  experience  making  me  feel 
older,  when  she  caught  me  up  suddenly. 

"Yes.  Just  so — but  I  hardly  think  you're  mothering 
that  Watkins  man — are  you  ?" 

I  made  no  answer. 

"Or  Hollis  Dale  2" 

"Frank  Hollis  Dale  doesn't  know  I'm  alive,"  I  snapped, 
"except  that  I'm  a  typist — and  not  nearly  as  good  a  one 
as  he'd  like  to  have." 

For  a  long  minute  Miss  Chandler  leaned  back  silent. 
Several  times  she  shook  her  head;  once  she  drew  quick 
breath  to  speak,  but  checked  herself.  Finally  she  jumped 
up  and  stood  staring  at  me  angrily. 

"Well,  have  it  your  own  way ;  suppose  you  have  kept  the 
letter  of  the  law — so  far  ?  It's  only  a  matter  of  time  with 


156  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

a  girl  of  your  sort — pretty — green  as  a  gourd — drifting 
about  from  one  man's  office  to  another.  You've  got  to  face 
life  as  you  find  it — make  the  best  of  things  as  they  are — 
not  as  the  preachers  tell  us  they  are." 

"Well,  I'm  trying  to  do  that,"  I  said,  shortly.  It  did 
seem  a  farce  for  her  to  lecture  me.  "I've  got  to  consider 
both  myself — and  a  child.  A  mother  owes " 

"Piffle !"  she  broke  in  on  me.  "You  mean  by  that  you'll 
drudge  like  a  dog  through  all  your  best  years,  lose  your 
good  looks  and  attractions,  never  have  anything  for  your- 
self, all  to  raise  another  human  being  that  isn't  any  better 
or  any  worse  than  you  are  ?" 

"A  mother  owes  a  clean  record  to  her  children,"  I  said, 
doggedly.  "Boyce  didn't  ask  me  to  be  born.  He's  a  four- 
year-old  baby — with  no  say-so.  Before  he  came  I  lived 
every  day  and  night  of  my  married  life  with  the  thought 
of  suicide.  I  couldn't  do  that  now — I  don't  belong  to  my- 
self alone." 

"Ugh!"  Miss  Chandler  shrugged  disgustedly.  "You're 
a  mush  of  sentiment,  Gallic.  I  guess  the  child's  got  to 
live,  hasn't  he?  And  have  an  education?  A  chance  in 
life  ?  Who's  paying  his  board  out  there  now  ?  What  ails 
you  is  that  you  won't  face  things.  If  the  child's  all,  let 
me  tell  you  you  could  do  a  lot  better  for  him  than  you 
are."  I  tried  to  interrupt ;  she  silenced  me  with  a  motion. 
"You  could  live  nicely,  stand  better  than  you  do  now — 
and  have  him  with  you — wait — wait — hear  me  out ! — if 
you'd  show  a  little  common  sense.  You'll  inevitably  at- 
tract men — the  question  is  what  are  you  going  to  do  with 
that  attraction  ?  It's  eat  or  be  eaten.  Are  you  going  to 
play  the  poor  little  shabby  country  girl  just  come  to  town 
— every  man's  prey — or  are  you  going  to  use  such  sense 
as  you've  got  and  prey  on  them?" 

"Nobody's  going  to  prey  on  me,"  I  said. 

"Wait !"  Miss  Chandler  flung  the  one  syllable  out 
meaningly;  then  added,  "Some  you  don't  even  have  to 


MISS  CHANDLER'S  POINT  OF  VIEW       157 

wait  for.  But  they  all  come  to  it  at  last.  Beat  them  to 
it.  And  keep  sentiment  out  of  such  affairs,  or  they  make 
a  victim  of  you — just  as  marriage  does.  Feeling — I'm 
done  with  it !"  Her  face  was  black. 

"Don't  talk  that  way,"  I  protested. 

She  dropped  into  her  chair  and  spoke  quietly. 

"Sit  down  and  listen  to  me,  Gallic.  It  won't  hurt  you. 
I've  got  to  tell  you  where  I  invested  my  feelings,  and  what 
I  got  by  it." 

Without  a  word  I  took  the  little  chair,  and  she  talked 
right  on. 

"When  my  parents  died — within  a  week  of  each  other — 
I  was  abroad,  with  the  first  Mrs.  Hoard;  she'd  gone  for 
an  operation  and  I  to  study  music.  The  judge  was  left 
administrator  and  guardian.  When  I  came  home  I  lived 
with  them."  She  wheeled  sharply  on  me.  "You've  seen 
Judge  Hoard  ?" 

I  had,  several  times,  at  the  McBride  office.  He  was  a 
fine,  haughty-looking  man,  such  as  you  might  expect  to  be 
high-handed  with  a  young  girl's  love  affairs. 

"Mrs.  Hoard  was  an  invalid.  He's  the  biggest-brained 
man  I  ever  knew — nearly  as  old  as  my  father,  yet  I  was 
crazy  about  him,  perfectly  happy  with  his  promise  of  mar- 
riage when  he  should  be  free  to  marry."  She  flared  a 
sudden  glance  at  me.  "What  do  you  think  of  the  man  who 
seduced  his  eighteen-year-old  ward,  his  dead  partner's 
daughter — under  such  circumstances  ?" 

"Oh,  dreadful!"  I  cried. 

"Not  so  much  worse  than  others,"  she  said,  coldly. 
"You  don't  think  that  your  friend  Watkins  would  treat 
you  like  that,  maybe,  or  Hollis  Dale ;  but  I'm  here  to  tell 
you  that  men  are  pretty  much  alike — take  them  on  the  side 
of  sex.  Judge  Hoard's  wife  died  when  I  was  twenty-one. 
Our  affair  had  been  going  on  more  than  three  years.  By 
that  time  I  was  living  with  this  cousin  of  mine ;  Celia  was 
a  rich  widow.  Our  secret  meetings  slacked  up  a  little — 


158  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

it  was  as  though  he  drew  off  before  beginning  openly  to 
court  me.  That's  what  he  gave  me  to  understand.  He 
was  courting  my  cousin  on  the  sly.  I  came  back  from  a 
little  southern  trip  to  find  them  married." 

It  was  very  still  in  the  room.  Outside  the  ting, 
ting,  ting,  ting  of  a  scissors  grinder  went  slowly  by. 
Miss  Chandler  began  to  tap  with  her  slipper  on  the 
carpet. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "I  was  finished.  I  was  done  with  sen- 
timent. I'd  adored  that  man — been  as  big  a  fool  about 
him  as  a  girl  could  be.  And  I  hated  him  now  just  as 
thoroughly.  I  stayed  right  there  in  the  house;  Cousin* 
Celia  asked  me,  and  it  was  a  good  way  to  get  even  with 
him.  He'd  treat  me  like  that,  would  he,  and  think  he  could 
get  by  with  it?  I  showed  him.  He  hadn't  much — my 
father  was  the  money-maker  of  the  firm.  But  I  took  what 
he  had,  and  I  made  his  life  a  burden  to  him  when  it  gave 
out  and  he  wouldn't  go  to  Celia  for  more." 

I  thought  of  the  clothes,  jewelry,  and  all  sorts  of  stuff 
that  I  had  seen  brought  into  that  room  to  crowd  the  places 
of  articles  just  about  as  good,  almost  as  new — it  would  be 
impossible  to  keep  Eugenia  Chandler's  pockets  filled.  I 
had  seen  Judge  Hoard  and  his  wife  together.  Nobody 
could  doubt  that  he  really  loved  the  woman  he  had  mar- 
ried ;  that  the  peace  of  his  latter  years  was  all  in  her  hands. 
I  imagined  his  dread  and  hatred  of  this  wild  girl  against 
whom  he  had  sinned,  with  her  insatiable  demands  for 
money. 

"Oh,  let  them  alone,"  I  pleaded.  "You  only  poison 
your  own  life  trying  to  punish  him." 

"No,"  obstinately,  "I'm  going  to  shake  him  down  once 
more." 

Again  the  room  was  still.  I  sat  with  my  head^down, 
my  hands  gripped  tight  in  my  lap.  What  she  had  told 
me  of  the  judge  was  to  set  herself  right  in  my  eyes;  in- 
stead, it  only  put  me  in  despair  of  her — of  everybody — of 


MISS  CHANDLER'S  POINT  OF  VIEW      159 

life.  I  couldn't  hold  back  my  tears  any  longer;  sobs  be- 
gan to  shake  me. 

"For  goodness'  sake!"  there  was  a  queer,  new  tone  in 
Miss  Chandler's  voice,  "did  I  hurt  your  feelings  some 
way?" 

"No,"  I  choked ;  "I'm  just  heartbroken  for  you." 

"Well !"  she  said.  Her  hand  went  up  to  her  lips,  and 
she  eyed  me.  "Did  you  ever !  Is  there  anybody  else  on 
earth  that  would  take  it  like  that — that  would  care  that 
much  ?  Callie — don't !  If  you  get  me  to  crying,  we'll 
bring  the  house  down ;  I'm  a  whale  at  it.  Do  say  some- 
thing cheerful,  child." 

"All  right,"  I  gasped.  I  shook  the  tears  from  my  face 
and  jumped  to  my  feet.  Miss  Chandler  got  up  the  min- 
ute I  did.  "We'll  forget  it." 

"And  you  won't  leave  the  Poinsettia — because  I'm 
here  ?" 

"No — no,  not  if  you'd  rather  I'd  stay." 

"Poor  Callie !"  She  laughed  a  little,  but  I  saw  her 
mouth  tremble.  "I  do  want  you  to  stay.  I'll  let  you 
alone — but  it'll  be  kind  of — well,  nice,  you  know — to  see 
your  face  in  the  halls," 


CHAPTEK  X 


I  KEPT  out  of  Miss  Chandler's  room.  When  we'd  meet 
in  the  hall  she  seemed  just  as  usual,  except  for  a  queer 
little  laughing  devil  in  her  eyes  that  made  her  look  much 
prettier  and  more  fascinating.  I  had  quite  a  lot  of  her 
work,  and  my  sewing  things  were  all  among  her  belong- 
ings. I  finally  went  down  to  straighten  this  up.  And  the 
minute  I  got  into  her  room  she  started  talking  right  where 
we  had  left  off  last  time,  going  at  it  as  if  we'd  been  barely 
interrupted  by  the  shutting  of  a  door.  I  was  at  a  disad- 
vantage with  this  elegant,  polished  woman  of  the  world, 
used  to  setting  the  pace  in  her  circle,  one  who  felt  she  had 
sanction  for  whatever  she  chose  to  do.  Rules  and  regula- 
tions were  for  folks  below  her  in  understanding.  She 
seemed  to  think  it  a  compliment  to  me  not  to  be  rated  with 
them.  I  didn't  want  to  hurt  her  feelings  by  appearing  to 
preach  or  hold  myself  better  than  she  was.  Altogether  it 
was  very  confusing  and  painful. 

I'd  be  down  on  my  knees  before  her  little  sewing  stand 
trying  to  sort  out  spool  silk  or  find  my  small  scissors  or  my 
tape  line,  and  she'd  stop  me  so  as  to  get  my  undivided  at- 
tention and  emphasise  her  points.  The  first  time  I  was 
so  upset  that  I  didn't  get  a  thing  I  came  after.  I  had  to 
go  back  next  day.  I  did  better  then — just  said  yes  and 
no  and  tried  to  keep  my  mind  on  my  errand,  and  once  or 
twice  afterward  I  managed  the  same  way.  Yet  I  never 
saw  her  now  that  she  didn't  have  something  new  and  dis- 
turbing to  say  about  her  revenge  on  Judge  Hoard. 

"He  hasn't  got  anything  left — of  his  own ;  I  pretty  well 
cleaned  him  out,"  she  remarked.  It  seemed  strange  to 
hear  her,  whom  I  was  used  to  see  all  generosity  (yes,  and 

160 


DELIA'S  ADDRESS  161 

true  affection — toward  me)  go  on,  "but  Celia's  Alaska 
properties  have  taken  a  jump.  Nobody  knows  what  those 
mines  will  amount  to  yet — half  a  million,  maybe.  Now  is 
my  time.  I'll  have  a  hundred  thousand  of  it,  and  the 
Judge  will  give  it  to  me."  When  she  said  that  she  glanced 
at  my  face.  I  suppose  I  did  look  sort  of  sick,  for  she 
wound  up,  good-naturedly,  "I  forgot  that  scared  you.  I 
won't  repeat  it — but  you'll  see!" 

But  what  she  spoke  oftenest  about  was  an  auto  trip  four 
of  them  were  planning  to  make  up  to  the  Pendleton  camp 
above  Meaghers.  She  wanted  me  to  go.  I  wasn't  answer- 
ing or  objecting  to  anything  she  said.  I  felt  hopeless,  but 
she  went  on  arguing  as  though  I  had.  "It  needn't  make 
any  difference  that  the  place  is  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
your  old  home,  Gallic.  We'll  go  in  with  a  chauffeur  and 
cook  from  San  Francisco,  and  none  of  the  neighbours 
need  see  anything  of  us."  I  took  it  she  had  made  a  good 
many  such  trips  before,  but  I  didn't  ask.  I  couldn't 
preach  to  her ;  I  wasn't,  in  fact,  prepared  to  meet  her  ar- 
guments. 

"Oh,  Miss  Chandler — don't !  You  promised  you 
wouldn't,"  I  fairly  whimpered  at  last.  She  only  laughed 
at  me.  And  after  that  I  just  meekly  said  nothing,  and 
finally  kept  out  of  her  way. 

One  thing  remained  to  me  from  her  talk  as  a  light  on 
my  personal  affairs.  She  was  no  hypocrite,  and  I  couldn't 
defend  Harvey  when  she  called  him  one.  But  when  she 
spoke  slightingly  of  Delia,  I  remembered  Dele's  coming,  a 
young  lady  from  a  larger  town,  and  making  so  much  of  me 
when  a  was  a  village  high  school  girl;  I  remembered  how 
fond  I'd  been  of  her ;  and  I  made  up  my  mind  to  get  that 
address  from  Harvey  as  soon  as  he  got  back  to  San  \ricente 
and  write  to  her.  Looking  back,  it  seemed  perfectly  in- 
explicable that  I  hadn't  done  this  before.  What  could 
she  possibly  think  if  I  met  her  in  after  years  and  she  knew 
that  I'd  been  in  San  Vicente  so  long,  out  at  her  house,  go- 


162  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

ing  about  with  Harvey — though  it  might  be  at  the  time 
they  were  separating — and  never  once  made  any  attempt 
to  communicate  with  her?  Harvey  was  to  get  into  San 
Vicente  on  a  certain  Saturday  night,  or  he  might  be  de- 
layed till  the  next  Sunday.  I  rather  thought  if  he  did  get 
in,  he'd  ring  me  up,  yet  when  Monday  came  and  he  hadn't 
done  so,  I  stopped  in  at  the  office  and  asked. 

Yes,  he  had  come.  Mr.  Bates,  in  the  outer  office,  mo- 
tioned me  toward  the  private  room  and  I  walked  right 
through  as  had  been  my  custom.  He  was  at  his  desk  with 
a  big  pile  of  mail  in  front  of  him,  and  he  looked  up  at  me 
with  a  queer  kind  of  look,  then  glanced  over  my  shoulder 
at  the  door  that  didn't  swing  quite  shut  behind  me.  I 
hardly  waited  to  shake  hands.  I  didn't  sit  down,  or  say 
a  word  to  him  about  his  trip,  but  rushed  straight  to  the 
point. 

"Harvey,  I  want  you  to  give  me " 

Again  he  looked  at  the  door,  so  significantly  this  time 
that  I  hesitated.  Someone  was  coming  into  the  outer  of- 
fice. There  were  noisy  greetings.  Determined  not  to  be 
put  off  or  interrupted,  I  bent  down  and  spoke  in  a  sort  of 
energetic  whisper. 

"Harvey,"  I  said,  "give  me  Delia's  address — now — this 
morning.  I've  got  to  write  to  her.  It's  none  of  my  busi- 
ness what — how — how  things  are  between  you  two.  I  love 
Delia.  Why  would  I  hold  off  from  her  ?  I'm  ashamed 
that  I  haven't  written  before.  Where  is  she?  Give  mo 
her  address." 

Without  taking  his  hands  off  of  the  work  on  his  desk,  he 
sat,  his  head  twisted  around,  and  stared  up  at  me.  Before 
he  could  say  a  word  a  voice  sounded  behind  me : 

"Well— Forma  Boyce— Foncie !" 

A  stoutish,  palish,  much-dressed-up  woman  that  I 
couldn't  thiuk  I  had  ever  seen  before  stood  in  the  door 
of  the  private  office.  I  gaped  at  her.  It  came  over  me 
that  I  must  be  looking  at  the  Mrs.  Harvey  Watkins  Miss 


DELIA'S  ADDRESS  163 

Chandler  had  described.  Yes,  I  was  right,  for  the  woman 
came  and  took  me  in  a  business-like  embrace  and  kissed 
me. 

"Mr.  Bates  said  it  was  you  in  here.  To  think  of  just 
walking  up  on  you  this  way — when  I  haven't  seen  you  for 
— why,  it  must  be  six  or  seven  years !" 

"Delia !"  I  hung  on  to  the  lapel  of  her  coat ;  it  seemed 
to  me  I  never  had  been  so  glad  to  see  anybody  in  my  life. 
The  unexpectedness  of  her  return  made  it  only  the  more 
welcome.  Here  was  my  refuge.  Here  was  the  one  woman 
friend  I  could  count  on  in  San  Vicente.  "Why,  Delia," 
I  babbled,  "how  did  you  know  me — just  like  that  ?" 

What  a  speech !  The  minute  the  words  were  out  I  saw 
they  implied  that  I'd  not  have  known  her — that  she  was 
awfully  changed.  However,  it  seemed  she  was  just  the 
same  as  ever  in  one  way — not  readily  offended.  She  just 
kissed  me  again  and  laughed. 

"Oh,  I  knew  you  were  in  San  Vicente,  though,  of 
course,  I  didn't  expect  to  find  you  here.  Mrs.  Eccles  wrote 
me  she  was  taking  care  of  a  child  for  you." 

"Mrs.  Eccles !"  I  stood  there,  not  daring  to  so  much  as 
glance  in  Harvey's  direction. 

"Sure,  Mrs.  Eccles,"  Delia  repeated.  "She  always  at- 
tends to  things  at  the  house  for  me,  and  when  she  wrote 
about  them  she  mentioned  you  and  the  child.  Harvey 
never  would  have  thought  of  it."  She  had  moved  over  to 
him.  Her  hand  was  on  his  shoulder;  he  was  looking 
straight  ahead  of  him.  "That's  a  man  for  you — writing  to 
me  every  day  of  the  world,  and  never  mentioned  it !" 

He  had  been  writing  to  her  every  day!  I  stood  posi- 
tively stupefied,  trying  to  make  that  fact  fit  in  with  any 
other  single  thing  I  knew  of  the  past  months.  He  had 
been  writing  to  her  every  day.  There  they  both  were  in 
front  of  me,  talking,  and  I  had  to  answer — this  was  no 
time  to  get  it  straightened  out — he  had  been  writing  to  Tier 
every  day! 


164.  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

Harvey  bunched  his  letters  in  his  hands,  got  up  and 
pushed  his  desk  chair  around  with  his  knee.  He  hadn't 
looked  at  me  yet,  but  now  I  gazed  hard  at  him  as  he 
glanced  toward  Delia  and  spoke — naturally  enough,  it 
seemed  to  me : 

"You've  forgotten,  Dele — I  certainly  mentioned  Calla 
when  she  first  came  down  to  San  Vicente.  You've  just 
forgotten." 

He  went  then.  I  can't  say  that  he  seemed  embarrassed 
or  distressed,  but  as  I  looked  after  him  it  was  as  though 
the  Harvey  Watkins  I  knew  had  been  spirited  away  and 
another  man  put  into  the  good  tweed  suit.  This  was  Har- 
vey Watkins,  the  married  man — Delia's  Harvey.  As  she 
shoved  in,  smiling,  to  take  his  desk  chair,  and  pulled  me 
toward  the  arm  of  it,  facing  her,  I  asked,  stammeringly : 

"When — when  did  you  get  back  ?" 

"Came  Saturday — with  Harve.  Every  week-end  for  a 
month,  when  he'd  start  home,  I've  been  having  half  a  mind 
to  come  along;  and  this  time  I  just  did  it." 

I  held  my  eyes  down  and  fumbled  with  my  fingers,  and 
thought  what  an  idiot  I'd  been  never  to  guess  where  Har- 
vey's week-ends  were  spent.  Delia  noticed  nothing.  She 
was  going  on  in  her  good-natured,  practical,  chatty 
way: 

"And  I'm  glad  I  came,  too.  I  can  get  as  good  electric 
treatment  right  here  in  San  Vicente  as  I  was  getting  at 
the  sanitarium,  and  the  way  they  feed  you  at  Mount 
Pleasant  is  a  disgrace.  Give  me  my  own  house  and  my 
own  cook." 

"You I  raised  my  eyes  with  what  I  meant  to  be  a 

smile.  "You've  got  such  a  lovely  home " 

"Oh,  you've  seen  it?"  she  interrupted.  "Of  course — 
going  out  to  Las  Reudas  where  the  child  is.  But  wait  till 
I  show  you  my  things.  We'll  have  some  good  times  there 
—won't  we  ?" 

I  nodded,  clawing  desperately  at  the  idea  of  telling  her 


DELIA'S  ADDRESS  165 

how  often  I  had  been  in  her  house.  Then  I  heard  myself 
say: 

"I'm  attending  business  college  now,  but — but  of  course 
I'll  be  glad  to  come  and  see  you  when  I'm  out  at  Las  Reu- 
das  some  time." 

"Business  college!"  Delia  picked  up  my  jacket  edge, 
her  eyes  on  my  face.  "Say,  Foncie,  have  you  left  your 
husband  ?" 

"Yes." 

She  pulled  a  bit,  unconsciously,  on  the  coat  hem,  and 
squinted  up  her  eyes. 

"Uh-huh,"  she  nodded.  "Mrs.  Eccles  said  she  thought 
you  had.  Are  you  getting  a  divorce  ?" 

"Yes.  Harvey  got  it  for  me — the  interlocutory  decree 
— just  before  he  left  on  this  trip." 

"Well,  did  you  ever !  Aren't  men  funny  ?"  She  let  go 
of  me  and  sat  back  to  laugh.  "They  never  think  to  tell  you 
the  gossip.  Of  course,  Harvey  and  I  were  on  the  go  every 
minute  with  the  bar  association  this  time ;  but — a  divorce 
— poor  Foncie !  'Change  the  name  and  not  the  letter, 
change  for  the  worse  and  not  for  the  better.'  I'm  awfully 
sorry.  Was — was  he  mean  to  you  ?" 

"No — yes — I — not  now,  Delia,"  I  halted  out. 

"All  right — all  right,"  Delia  agreed,  hastily.  "But, 
Foncie — any  alimony?" 

"No.  That's  why  I'm  studying  stenography.  Harvey 
thought  it  was  the  best  plan.  He  got  the  firm  to  promise 
me  a  position  here." 

"Here  ?"  screamed  Delia,  then  laughed  heartily.  "Isn't 
that  just  like  Hoddy?  He  couldn't  think  of  any  other 
place  for  you,  so  he  let  them  stick  you  in  here.  Good- 
ness, that'll  never  do !  We'll  have  to  think  up  something 
better  for  you,  Foncie." 

"But  I've — they  advanced  money  for  my  course  in  the 
business  college,"  I  said.  "I'm  to  pay  it  back  out  of  my 
salary." 


166  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

"Well — can't  you  par  it  bade  out  of  a  salary  yon  get 
from  some  other  firm  just  as  weflf  demanded  practical 
Delia.  "These  folks7!!  never  give  you  what  yon  ought  to 
have — with  a  child  to  support  You  let  me  manage  it. 
Hodd^s  a  fine  lawyer,  and  a  kind  old  dear,  hut  he's  of  no 
account  for  a  thing  of  this  sort.  I'm  twice  as  good  a 
mixer.7'  She  looked  me  over  thoughtfully,  patting  my 
shoulder.  Til  tell  you  what  Pd  do  if  I  were  in  your 
place.  Fd  try  for  a  position  on  the  'Clarion.7  You  used 
to  write  splendidly.  You  were  sending  articles  to  the 
San  Vicente  'Clarion'  when  I  visited  in  Stanleyton." 

Quite  true.  The  clippings  of  those  first  attempts  which 
had  actually  been  printed  on  a  Woman's  Page  seven  years 
ago  were  among  my  things  at  the  Poinsettia  now,  saved 
along  with  other  Tamable  documents  in  a  pasteboard  box. 
I  would  have  said  there  was  no  one  left  in  the  world  to  re- 
member them:  it  warmed  my  heart  to  Delia  that  she 
should  sit  there  and  seriously  recall  them  as  of  value,  and 
I  cried  out,  almost  as  I  might  have  done  in  the  days  when 
those  things  were  written: 

"If  I  only  could  get  a  place  like  that !" 

"Well — there's  no  reason  you  shouldn't  try,"  Delia  en- 
couraged. "Fix  up  nice,  put  on  the  prettiest  dress  youVe 
got,  and  go  and  ask.  Just  stick  to  it.  Don't  let  them  say 
*No?  to  you.  Tell  them  you're  an  intimate  friend  of  mine 
— that  PD  swing  all  the  women's  associations  in  town  for 
yoa.  You've  got  to  make  every  edge  cut,  Foneie — a  di- 
vorced woman,  burdened  with  a  child — poor  girl !" 

Harvey  was  coming  back.  He  stopped  in  the  doorway 
when  he  saw  that  Delia  had  his  chair. 

"AH  right,"  she  said,  getting  to  her  feet  and  collecting 
shopping  bag,  boa,  gloves  and  veil,  "I'll  go.  We  can  finish 
our  visit  out  home.  Foncie's  coming  to  dinner  this  even- 
ing, so  don't  you  f  afl  to  be  on  time,  Hod — five  o'clock,  be- 
cause you've  got  a  lot  of  watering  to  do  on  that  front 


DELIA'S  ADDRESS  167 

"Oh,  Delia,"  I  interrupted.  "Really  I  don't  believe  I 
could  come  this  evening." 

"Of  course  you  can."  Delia  freed  a  hand  and  took  hold 
of  me.  "I'm  just  dying  to  show  you  my  house.  You  get 
there  by  five  o'clock — half  past — six,  anyhow — and  we'll 
have  a  real  old-fashioned  visit." 

"I've  seen  your  house — it's  lovely,"  I  was  beginning, 
hurriedly.  But  Delia  wasn't  listening.  She  brushed  me 
aside  with: 

"Foncie,  don't  bring  the  little  one  with  you  this  even- 
ing. I  want  to  have  a  nice  long  visit — just  with  you.  It 
can  come  some  other  time." 

While  she  said  all  this  I  couldn't  see  a  flicker  of  change 
on  Harvey's  wooden  face  where  he  stood  by  the  door,  the 
knob  in  his  hand,  ready  to  let  her  out.  When  she  got  op- 
posite him  she  halted,  picking  at  an  imaginary  thread  on 
his  coat,  looking  him  over  with  a  connubial  intimacy  that 
would  have  been  disconcerting  to  any  outsider,  but  which, 
under  the  circumstances,  made  my  head  go  around.  I 
knew  of  old  that  what  one  got  from  Delia  was  always 
plain  facts.  If  there  had  been  any  real  trouble  between 
her  and  Harvey  she  could  no  more  have  concealed  it  from 
me  than  she  could  have  written  stories  or  acted  on  the 
stage.  It  wasn't  merely  that  she  meant  to  be  frank — she 
lacked  imagination  to  be  anything  else.  Delia  had  made 
the  kind  of  wife  who  cannot  keep  her  hands  off  her  hus- 
band, before  folks.  She  looked  from  him  to  me,  from  me 
to  him,  and  finally  said,  complacently : 

"He's  a  pretty  good  old  man,  Foncie.  But  you  have  to 
keep  any  of  'em  busy.  Make  'em  useful,  or  they'll  forget 
you're  alive — won't  they  ?" 

"All  right,  Dele — give  me  your  list."  Harvey  jiggled 
the  door  a  little,  but  his  tone  was  the  amiable  common- 
place of  a  satisfactorily  married  husband. 

"There,"  crowed  Delia,  triumphantly;  "haven't  I  got 
him  well  trained  ?"  Then,  to  Harvey,  "You  only  need  to 


168  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

go  past  the  electrical  company's  place  and  bring  out  my 
vibrator.  Just  one  errand — but  you'd  better  not  forget 
that !"  She  turned  again  to  me.  "Half  past  five,  honey — 
and  don't  bring  the  child." 

Harvey  got  a  parting  pull  and  pat.  Delia  looked  over 
her  shoulder  to  nod  once  more  brightly  to  me.  Then  he 
shut  the  door  behind  her.  We  were  alone  together.  He 
came  across  to  his  desk.  He  didn't  look  at  me.  I  tried  to 
think  of  something  to  say — and  couldn't  get  one  word. 
What  was  the  use  ?  There  he  stood,  just  Harvey  Watkins. 
And,  after  all,  he  hadn't  actually  lied  to  me  in  words  any- 
where. He  had  just  implied  everything,  and  let  me  de- 
ceive myself.  No,  there  was  no  use  talking  to  him  about 
it ;  all  I  could  do  was  to  go  ahead  and  be  frank  and  honest 
with  Delia  now. 

"Well,  Calla,"  as  Harvey  got  into  his  chair,  he  sent  a 
sort  of  dodging  glance  at  ine  and  attempted  to  take  up  our 
conversation  where  it  had  been  interrupted,  "weren't  you 
asking  me  for  something  when  she  came  in  ?" 

I  laughed  a  little. 

"Yes,"  I  said ;  "for  Delia's  address.    But  I've  got  it." 

"All  right."  Harvey  refused  to  see  the  joke.  "What 
else  ?" 

"I  wanted  to  return  the  scholarship  card,"  laying  it  on 
his  desk.  "I'm  done  with  it." 

"Ready  for  work,  do  you  mean?"  He  looked  up, 
startled.  "Can  you  begin  now?  I  wouldn't  have  taken 
that  stuff  out  to  Bates  if  I  had  known  that." 

I  stood  before  him,  mute  as  a  fish.  What  in  the  world 
should  I  say  ?  I  couldn't  work  for  McBride,  McBride  & 
Watkins  now,  and  meet  Harvey  every  day — let  alone  hold 
the  position  of  his  private  secretary — yet  there  was  the 
bargain.  I'd  had  the  money. 

"Well  ?"  he  prompted,  impatiently. 

"Delia  and  I  were  talking "  I  began,  and  broke  off. 

The  stupid  silence  that  followed  made  me  mad — why 


DELIA'S  ADDRESS  169 

should  /  have  to  feel  all  the  embarrassment?  Before  I 
knew  it  I  had  blurted  out,  "I'm  going  down  to  the  'Clar- 
ion' office  and  ask  for  a  job  there." 

"The  'Clarion'  ?"  Harvey  swung  around  and  stared. 
"Who  put  that  fool  notion  in  your  head  ?" 

"Delia "  I  began,  but  he  broke  out : 

"Well,  I'll  be  darned!  If  you  leave  two  women  alone 
for  a  minute  they  can  hatch  up  more  mischief.  Take  this 
week  off  if  you  like — on  salary — and  go  to  work  here  next 
Monday  morning.  You  let  the  'Clarion'  office  alone — it's 
no  place  for  you." 

"What's  the  matter  ?  Don't  you  believe  I  can  write  well 
enough  to  work  on  a  newspaper  ?"  I  asked,  resentfully,  and 
added,  "Mr.  Dale  thinks  I  have  good  writing  ability." 

"He  does?"  For  a  minute  Harvey  had  a  notion  to 
quarrel  with  me  about  Frank  Hollis  Dale.  I  could  see  it 
in  his  eye.  Then  he  went  back  to  the  first  question.  I 
rather  had  him  there,  because  he  wouldn't  say  a  word 
openly  and  directly  against  Delia's  advice.  "That's  not 
the  point,"  he  shook  his  head.  "Even  if  I  should  let  you 
throw  up  your  bargain  with  this  firm  (mind,  I'm  not  do- 
ing anything  of  the  sort;  you're  going  to  work  for  us  as 
you're  in  honour  bound),  it  wouldn't  be  to  see  you  go  after 
a  place  that  would  cost  any  woman  her  reputation.  Every- 
body knows  what  Stokes  is.  He  doesn't  let  any  of  'em  get 
by.  You  keep  out  of  his  office." 

Yesterday  Harvey's  talk  about  my  having  made  a  con- 
tract with  his  firm  would  have  silenced  me ;  yesterday  what 
he  said  about  the  editor  of  the  "Clarion"  would  have 
weighed  with  me ;  but  after  this  morning  I  thought  I  was 
doing  pretty  well  to  only  say  to  him : 

"Yes.  Well,  I  guess  I'll  take  Delia's  advice  this  time, 
Harvey.  She  thinks  the  'Clarion'  office  is  all  right — and 
you  were  just  making  a  place  for  me  here  out  of  good  na- 
ture. I  can  pay  you  back  with  what  I  earn  there,  and  I'll 
do  it." 


170  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

Harvey  exploded,  but  inarticulately.  I  left  him  furi- 
ous ;  yet  I  think  he  got  off  easy. 

I  did  exactly  as  Delia  had  told  me — went  home  and  put 
on  my  best ;  made  myself  look  as  nice  as  possible ;  and  was 
downtown  again  while  my  courage  still  held.  A  frowsy 
old  flight  of  steps  led  up  to  the  "Clarion"  office.  The 
newspaper  had  the  entire  second  floor.  I  could  see  when  I 
got  to  the  head  of  the  stairs,  through  little  dingy  corridors 
and  open  doors  in  every  direction,  people  moving  about, 
work  going  on.  I  asked  a  dirty-faced  boy  who  came  flying 
past  with  his  hands  full  of  manuscript  where  Mr.  Stokes's 
room  was.  He  jerked  a  thumb  over  his  shoulder  toward 
the  door  he  had  come  out  of,  mumbled  something,  and  I 
went  ahead,  scared  to  death. 

I  got  my  first  view  of  my  editor  sitting  at  his  desk.  I 
rapped  again  on  the  open  door;  he  paid  no  attention;  of 
course  he  wouldn't,  with  all  the  clatter  of  the  presses  and 
machines  on  that  floor.  I  stood  and  stared  at  him  and 
trembled — a  big,  loosely  made,  bearish-looking  man,  work- 
ing away  like  smoke  at  galley  proofs.  I  went  in  and  stood 
directly  across  from  him.  I  had  my  name  ready  written 
on  a  card.  After  a  while  I  got  up  courage  to  reach  out 
and  put  it  on  the  table  beside  his  work.  He  glanced  at  it, 
looked  up  at  me  without  seeming  to  see  me,  and  mumbled : 

"Whadd'ye  want?" 

"A  job:" 

"What  kind?" 

"Why — writing.  I  wrote  these  for  the  'Clarion.7 '  I 
spread  out  my  little  bale  of  clippings,  my  faith  in  them 
not  quite  so  strong  as  it  had  been  when  I  put  them  in  my 
purse. 

He  reached  a  great,  hairy  paw  across,  swept  the  bits  of 
print  into  the  circle  of  his  gaze,  and  looked  them  over. 
Then  he  raised  his  eyes  to  me,  apparently  seeing  me  for 
the  first  tima 

"You  wrote  these  for  the  'Clarion'  ?     When?     Good 


DELIA'S  ADDRESS  171 

Lord !"  as  he  glanced  down  and  caught  sight  of  a  date  lino 
on  one  of  them  which  included  the  year.  "These  things 
are  seven  years  old — outlawed !"  He  thumped  them  with 
a  sort  of  grunt.  "Haven't  you  any  better  reason  than  that 
for  expecting  to  get  a  job  on  a  newspaper  ?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered;  "you're  going  to  give  me  the  job 
because  you  can  see  by  looking  at  me  that  I'm  a  good 
worker,  and  I'll  obey  orders.  You're  going  to  give  me  a 
chance." 

Up  to  this  time  everything  Mr.  Stokes  did  or  said  was 
in  the  line  of  getting  rid  of  me.  Now  he  threw  himself 
back  in  his  chair  for  a  long  survey. 

"Sit  down,"  he  ordered. 

I  dropped  into  the  chair  instantly.  His  eyes  never  left 
me.  I  felt  the  blood  come  into  my  face,  because  as  soon 
as  I  sat  down,  his  foot  touched  mine  under  the  table.  I 
would  have  thought  myself  prudish  to  notice  this  but  for 
what  Harvey  had  said. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  since  you  wrote  these 
things  ?"  the  editor  of  the  "Clarion"  opened  up  his  inves- 
tigation. "Are  you  sure  you  did  write  'em  ?  You  look  to 
me  like  a  high  school  girl.  I  can't  see  you  writing  for  the 
papers  seven  years  ago." 

"I  was  in  high  school  then,"  I  said.  "I  had  no  assist- 
ance on  the  work  except  one — one  friend,  who  criticised 
them  for  me." 

I  sat  looking  down,  suddenly  overwhelmed — it  was 
Philip  who  had  listened,  commented,  praised. 

"Huh — so  you  wrote  these  things  seven  years  ago— with 
somebody  to  help  you — and  you'll  walk  in  here  to  my  of- 
fice and  expect  me  to  turn  a  perfectly  good  society  editor 
out  of  her  place  and  give  it  to  you — is  that  it  ?" 

It  descended  on  me  like  a  load  of  brick.  He  hadn't  in- 
tended to  do  anything  but  refuse.  I  jumped  up  hastily, 
afraid  I  should  cry,  he  had  managed  to  make  it  so  disap- 
pointing and  humiliating. 


172  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

"I  didn't  know  but  you  had  a  place  vacant,"  I  got  out, 
with  fair  composure.  "I  need  the  work.  I  have  a  child 
to  support — and " 

I  turned  my  back  and  fairly  ran.  Mr.  Stokes's  voice 
stopped  me  at  the  door. 

"Hold  on !"  he  bellowed  after  me.  "Come  back  here ;  I 
want  to  take  another  look  at  you." 

He  swung  around  in  his  desk  chair,  a  big  bulk  of  a  man, 
pompous,  overbearing,  but  not,  so  far  as  I  could  see,  dan- 
gerous in  any  way.  I  went  meekly  and  stood  before  him 
like  a  child  while  he  put  me  through  a  catechism. 

"How  old  are  you  ?" 

"Twenty-two." 

"Married  ?" 

"Divorced.  My  little  boy  is  four  years  old.  I  have 
him  and  myself  to  support." 

"Eour  years  old!"  Mr.  Stokes  worried  the  big,  black 
cigar  he  had  stuck  in  the  corner  of  his  mouth  and  sur- 
veyed my  points  at  leisure.  Itfow  that  he  had  begun  to 
look  at  me,  he  scarcely  glanced  away  at  all.  I  didn't  mind 
his  staring  very  much.  I  felt  toward  him  a  good  deal  as 
you  do  toward  a  big,  shaggy  dog  that  you  aren't  really 
afraid  of.  "Four  years  old !"  he  repeated.  "Married  be- 
fore you  were  seventeen,  huh  ?" 

I  nodded. 

"Where  did  you  live  ?    What  does  your  husband  do  ?" 

"At  Meaghers,  Oregon.     A  small  dairy  ranch." 

"I  see.  A  job  on  the  'Clarion'  is  likely  to  be  easier  than 
the  dairy,  huh  ?" 

Again  I  nodded.  Let  him  think  what  he  would.  All 
I  wanted  from  Mr.  Stokes  was  a  job ;  so  long  as  there  was 
any  chance  of  my  getting  that,  I  certainly  would  not  of- 
fend him,  or  admit  myself  offended  by  him. 

"Is  there — have  you  got  anything  for  me  to  do — any- 
thing?" I  asked. 

"We-ell,"  his  glance  left  me  slowly  and  travelled  around 


DELIA'S  ADDRESS  173 

the  room,  "I  guess  I'll  let  you  go  now,  Sis.  Come  back 
to-morrow — late — I'm  busy  up  till  five  o'clock.  You  come 
in  after  five — and  I'll  see  what  I  can  do  for  you." 

I  thanked  him  and  went.  He  was  back  at  his  proofs  be- 
fore I  had  crossed  the  room.  I  hadn't  got  the  promise  of 
any  job,  but  as  I  descended  the  stairs  my  spirits  were 
good.  I  had  confidence  in  my  ability  to  "manage"  the 
editor. 

I  went  straight  from  the  "Clarion"  office  to  Las  Reudas 
and  found  Boy  in  a  furious  tantrum.  My  son  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  little  garden  at  Mrs.  Eccles's,  his  hazel  eyes 
black  with  rage,  his  cheeks  burning  red,  his  yellow  hair 
towsled  by  dirty,  clutching  hands.  He  had  thrown  bud'n 
down  and  was  kicking  it,  shouting: 

"I  won't  have  it — old,  ugly  thing !  Muwer,"  he  ran  to 
me  as  I  came  in  and  laid  hold  of  my  skirts,  "I  want  my 
Fairy  doggie.  Bring  it — quick." 

"It  isn't  your  doggie,  Boy,"  I  reasoned  with  him  gently. 
"Fairy  belongs  to  Mrs.  Watkins." 

"Is  my  doggie!"  He  delivered  a  blow  on  my  thigh 
which  may  have  been  intended  for  emphasis,  but  seemed 
more  like  chastisement. 

"No,  it's  Mrs.  Watkins's  doggie,"  I  persisted.  "Mrs. 
Watkins  hasn't  seen  Fairy  for  a  long,  long  time.  She's 
been  way.  She's  been  sick,  honey  boy.  Aren't  you  sorry 
she  was  sick  ?  Poor  Mrs.  Watkins !" 

"No.  She  can't  have  my  Fairy  doggie."  Then,  with  a 
sudden  crafty  eye  cast  up  toward  me,  "I'll  give  her  bud'n. 
I  don't  want  bud'n.  She  can  have  him.  I  want  my  dog- 
gie." And  again  the  sobs  shook  him ;  once  more  he  mauled 
the  unoffending  bud'n  for  not  being  what  it  was  never  in- 
tended to  be. 

We  had  a  great  time  over  him,  and  I  liked  Mrs.  Eccles 
better  than  I  ever  had  done.  He  hit  us  both,  and  she 
didn't  stand  out  for  her  first  proposition  that  he  should 
be  made  to  apologise.  I  told  her  he'd  do  that  next  day 


174  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

without  any  making.  I'd  never  seen  his  will  broken, 
though  I'd  had  to  interfere  when  his  father  tried  with  a 
collection  of  eucalyptus  switches  to  accomplish  that  unde- 
sirable thing.  I  was  desperately  eager  to  get  to  Delia's — 
I  did  wish  I  could  be  there  before  Harvey  came  from  town, 
so  as  to  have  a  minute  alone  with  her  and  set  things  right. 
They  weren't  really  wrong,  but  concealment  would  make 
them  seem  so — and  there  was  nothing  to  conceal.  Boyce 
roared  and  charged  till  he  wore  himself  out ;  at  last  we  got 
him,  snuffling,  into  bed,  I  promising  to  ask  if  Fairy 
couldn't  come  over  and  see  him  the  next  day. 

"Not  see  me,"  was  his  last,  whimpering  protest  as  his 
eyes  were  going  shut.  "Come  be  my  own  doggie.  Is  my 
own  doggie."  And  he  slept. 

I  was  late.  I  found  the  Watkinses  on  the  lawn,  Har- 
vey with  the  hose,  being  told  just  what  to  do  with  it,  like  a 
true  suburban  husband  and  householder.  Poor  Boy's  own 
doggie  lay  on  the  porch  and  snored,  till  my  step  roused  her 
and  she  waddled  out  toward  me  yapping. 

"She  won't  bite,"  Delia  called,  coming  down  the  walk. 
"Poor  old  Fairy,  she  hasn't  got  enough  teeth  left."  She 
reached  mei  and  put  an  arm  around  me  in  schoolgirl 
fashion,  grumbling,  "I  believe  a  pet  dog's  a  worse  bother 
than  a  child.  Children  do  grow  up  and  get  out  of  the  way 
sometimes,  but  even  when  a  spaniel's  old  and  too  fat  and 
half-blind  and  cross,  you  don't  quite  feel  like  having  it 
chloroformed  or  giving  it  away." 

Harvey  had  nodded  to  me  as  I  came  in  and  gone  on  with 
his  work,  but  now  we  were  within  earshot,  and  I  said, 
rather  at  him : 

"I've  just  come  from  somebody  who  doesn't  think 
Fairy's  old  or  fat.  Boyce  cried  himself  to  sleep  this  even- 
ing for  her.  Won't  you  please  let  her  go  over  and  play 
with  him  to-morrow  ?" 

"He'd  better  come  here,"  Harvey  spoke  up  quickly,  and 
Delia  added,  doubtfully: 


DELIA'S  ADDRESS  175 

"I  suppose  he  might.  We'll  be  all  torn  up  to-morrow 
anyhow,  having  the  rugs  out.  A  child  around  won't  make 
so  much  difference.  Yes — he'd  better  come.  I  can  keep 
an  eye  on  him  then.  Fairy's  a  spoiled  baby  herself.  Chil- 
dren never  understand  getting  along  with  animals." 

She  had  no  more  notion  of  the  feeling  between  Boy  and 
her  dog  than  she  had  of  the  footing  that  Harvey  and  I  had 
been  on.  IsTo  imagination  helped  her  to  guess  what  might 
have  been  taking  place  while  she  was  away.  She  seemed  to 
suppose  we  had  all  been  standing  on  the  shelf  waiting  for 
her  to  come  home  and  take  us  down  and  dust  us  and  place 
us  in  our  proper  relation  to  each  other. 

"Hoddy,"  she  said  suddenly,  "before  I  go  in  I  want  to 
see  you  watering  those  lilies.  I'm  crazy  to  show  Foncie 
the  house,  but  I  won't  leave  till  I  see  you  start  on  them. 
They  need  a  lot.  You  never  did  give  them  enough.  I 
believe  you've  got  a  spite  at  them." 

"I've  seen  the  house  inside,"  I  began  hurriedly,  deter- 
mined that  the  mere  statement  of  facts  should  not  be  lack- 
ing. Delia  ran  to  take  the  hose  out  of  Harvey's  hand  and 
regulate  the  spray. 

"He's  been  mad  about  these  callas  ever  since  I  planted 
them  here,"  she  cried,  half  laughing,  half  angry.  "He 
says  they're  too  common  in  California — that  they  look 
like  scraps  of  dirty  white  paper  somebody's  thrown  out  of 
the  window." 

Why  is  a  woman  concerned  and  embarrassed  at  such  a 
time  ?  The  man  in  the  case  wasn't. 

"Aw,  you've  got  that  wrong,  Dele,"  he  said  over  his 
shoulder,  hosing  away  at  the  callas.  "I  always  claimed 
these  for  mine.  I  wanted  them  around  under  the  window 
of  my  den." 

"Was  that  it?"  asked  Delia  carelessly.  "I  knew  you'd 
fought  about  having  them  planted  in  that  particular  bed. 
But  they're  a  flower  that  I  love." 

I  was  glad  to  follow  into  the  house.  Delia  hardly  let  me 


176  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

get  my  hat  off  before  she  hurried  me  down  the  back  hall, 
pulled  open  the  door  of  the  kitchen  and  was  for  going  in. 

The  range  was  covered  with  simmering,  steaming  sauce- 
pans ;  an  odor  of  cooking  came  out  to  us ;  a  Chinaman  in 
blue  cotton  jacket  stopped  our  way,  demanding, 

"What  you  want  ?" 

"Now,  Wo  Far — "  My  heart  jumped  at  the  name. 
" — I  only  want  to  show  Mrs.  Baird  your  lovely  kitchen. 
Just  a  minute.  We  won't  disturb  you.  You  keep  it  so 
clean  I'm  proud  to  show  it." 

The  Chinaman  stood  back  and  regarded  us  with  a  half 
derisive  eye.  Certainly  he  couldn't  have  failed  to  recog- 
nise me. 

"Missy  Baird,"  he  echoed.     "Name  Missy  Baird  ?" 

"Yes,  my  friend  Mrs.  Baird.  Look  at  the  range, 
Foncie,  it's  wrought  steel  and  has  all  the  very  latest  tricks 
to  it.  It  cost " 

"She  you  flend?"  Wo  Far  laughed  a  little,  and  my 
cheeks  were  hot.  "I  think  she  see  plenty  kitchen — you  go 
now — I  cook  dinner." 

"Oh,  but  she's  never  seen  my  kitchen  before,"  Delia 
coaxed.  "I  wanted  her  to  see  my  kitchen  once.  There — 
we'll  go." 

We  went.  The  Chinaman  looked  after  us  chuckling, 
and  repeating,  "Never  see  you  kitchen !  Now  she  see  you 
kitchen!"  I  would  have  explained  to  Delia  then  and 
there,  but  she  began  to  talk  and  fairly  headed  me  off. 

"Wo  Far's  always  like  that,"  she  said.  "Chinese  cooks 
never  want  you  to  go  into  the  kitchen,  but  I  put  up  with 
Wo  because  he's  the  best  I  ever  had,  and  he's  been  with  me 
so  long.  Come  up  to  my  room  and  let  me  show  you  the 
sleeping-porch.  You'll  never  know  true  comfort  till  you 
sleep  out  of  doors,  Foncie." 

It  was  Wo  Far  who  put  the  crowning  touch  on  my 
discomfort  that  day.  It  seemed  to  me  I  had  made  an 
honest  effort  to  have  Delia  understand  the  intimate  knowl- 


DELIA'S  ADDRESS  177 

edge  I  had  had  of  her  home,  and  how  things  had  been 
going  on.  It  couldn't  he  done;  there  was  too  much  of 
Harvey's  tacit  deceit  to  explain.  By  the  time  we  got  to 
the  dinner  table  I  fully  realised  that  there  was  no  use 
trying.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  the  Chinaman  then,  the  meal 
would  not  have  been  such  a  misery.  Really  nothing  had 
happened  that  amounted  to  a  row  of  pins,  yet  whenever 
Wo  Far  changed  my  plate  or  asked  Delia  a  question,  I  had 
a  feeling  of  guilt.  I  was  glad  when  Delia  finally  asked 


me 
it 


Well,  did  you  go  to  the  'Clarion'  office?" 

"Yes,"  I  nodded,  "and  made  an  appointment  for  to- 
morrow afternoon.  I  believe  I'm  going  to  get  some  sort 
of  a  place  there." 

"All  right  for  you,"  Harvey  was  helping  my  plate  a 
second  time  to  lamb  and  mint  sauce  as  he  spoke,  "but  you 
needn't  say  I  didn't  warn  you." 

"I  haven't  got  the  place  yet,"  I  said,  laughing  nervously. 

"What's  that?"  asked  Delia,  adding  mashed  potato  as 
my  plate  passed  her.  "Didn't  Hoddy  want  you  to  try  the 
'Clarion'  ?" 

"Well — rather  not!"  There  was  a  gleam  in  Harvey's 
eye  as  he  glanced  across  the  table.  "She  went  up  to 
Phipps's  to  fit  herself  for  a  place  in  my  office.  Then  when 
she's  ready  for  it  you  get  at  her  and  persuade  her  to  rush 
out  and  hunt  another  job.  Who  would  like  it?" 

"]STow,  Harve — you  haven't  got  a  place  for  Foncie  in 
your  office." 

"I  need  a  private  secretary  bad  enough,"  sullenly. 

"Well,  she  can't  afford  to  work  for  'thank  you.'  There's 
no  future  in  your  place.  Foncie'll  make  a  name  for  her- 
self in  newspaper  work." 

"She'll  make  a  name  for  herself  working  in  the  same 
office  with  Bill  Stokes,"  Harvey  laughed  shortly.  "But  it 
won't  be  the  right  kind  of  name." 

"Now,  Harve,  just  because  you've  got  a  high  standard, 


178  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

and  live  up  to  it  yourself,  it  doesn't  do  to  condemn  people 
right  and  left,  that  fall  a  little  below  it.  I  know  what 
you  mean — but  I  don't  see  it  the  way  you  do.  I  know 
there  are  stories  about  Mr.  Stokes,  but  that's  just  what  I 
think  they  are — stories.  I've  met  him  several  times  at 
club  receptions — his  wife  belongs  to  the  Laurel  Wreath 
and  the  Whist  Circle,  and  I  must  say  he  always  treated  me 
as  a  gentleman  should.  What  did  you  think  of  him  this 
afternoon,  Foncie?" 

"I  didn't  think  of  him  at  all,"  I  said  untruthfully.  "I 
was  so  busy  trying  to  get  a  job  out  of  him  that  I  hadn't  any 
time  to." 

"There — you  see,"  Delia  nodded  across  at  Harvey  tri- 
umphantly, "Foncie's  not  the  little  schoolgirl  flirt  she  was 
when  you  knew  her  back  in  Stanleyton.  Poor  thing — 
she's  had  trouble,  and  it's  made  a  woman  of  her.  She 
could  go  anywhere  and  get  along  with  anybody — now." 

"Well — if  she  'gets  along5  with  Bill  Stokes,  it'll  cer- 
tainly be  the  worse  for  her.  He's  notorious.  He  takes 
'em  as  they  come.  He's  after  'em  all.  And  there's  not  a 
ghost  of  a  chance  for  advancement  in  that  office.  Stokes 
wouldn't  have  it.  He'd  be  jealous  of  anyone  that  showed 
ability.  He'd  get  'em  fired  from  his  dirty  rag  of  a  paper. 
I  think  you  might  at  least  have  spoken  to  me  before  you 
put  her  up  to  going  down  there  for  work." 

I  made  some  sort  of  hasty  interruption,  and  got  the  talk 
diverted  to  something  else  for  the  moment,  but  we  quar- 
relled off  and  on  about  that  miserable  business  all  evening. 
No  topic  could  be  started  up  that  didn't  get  around  to  it 
finally.  Boyce  was  the  only  subject  that  disputed  the  cen- 
tre of  the  stage  with  it ;  when  Harvey  turned  in  to  talk  to 
Delia  about  him,  I  didn't  know  which  way  to  look.  They 
both  got  mad,  and  spoke  more  plainly  than  they  had  any 
business  to  before  a  third  person.  You  would  have  thought 
there  never  had  been  such  a  child  born  into  the  world  as 


DELIA'S  ADDRESS  179 

that  son  of  mine.  I'm  foolish  about  him  myself,  but  Har- 
vey, trying  to  make  Delia  feel  bad,  raved  about  him  beyond 
all  common  sense  and  reason.  And  poor  Delia,  almost 
crying,  talked  about  her  health  and  went  into  details  on  the 
subject  of  her  operations.  I  could  see  it  was  the  one 
point  that  Harvey  let  himself  go  on  and  got  the  best  of 
her  about — children — their  childless  home.  He  felt  he 
had  a  genuine  grievance  there,  and  either  she  agreed  with 
him  or  else  she  .knew  that  all  the  rest  of  the  world  would 
and  was  readier  to  make  concessions. 

Altogether  it  was  a  pretty  stormy  session,  and  it  didn't 
make  me  feel  that  I  wanted  to  go  back  there  very  soon. 
The  question  of  my  working  for  Harvey  or  getting  the 
place  on  the  paper  was  not  brought  up  again  till  just  as  I 
was  leaving.  We  had  got  as  far  as  the  hall,  Delia  called, 
"Wait  a  minute,"  and  dived  into  the  hall  closet  for 
something.  Harvey  seized  the  chance  to  ask  in  a 
whisper : 

"Was  it  true — what  you  said  at  the  table — -about  not 
having  closed  the  trade  with  that  dirty  dog  till  to-morrow 
afternoon  ?" 

I  nodded. 

"All  right.  I'll  see  you  again  before  that  time.  I'll 
talk  you  out  of  it.  I'll  show  you  why " 

I  shook  my  head  sharply.  He  took  hold  of  my  arm  and 
pulled  me  toward  the  front  door,  speaking  hastily  over 
his  shoulder. 

"Dele— I'll  take  Calla  to  her  car." 

"Of  course."  Delia  got  the  scarf  she  was  after,  and 
emerged,  putting  it  on.  "We'll  all  take  her.  Come  on, 
Fairy." 

The  three  of  us  walked  almost  in  silence  to  the  corner 
where  the  car  stopped.  When  we  saw  its  lights  a  block 
down,  Delia  kissed  me,  urging, 

"Now,  Foncie,  come  out  here  to  see  me  all  you  can.    I 


180  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

know  it's  hard  in  a  strange  town,  this  way.  You  just 
count  Harve  and  me  your  own  folks." 

The  car  was  near.    Harvey  came  to  help  me  on. 

"Kiss  her  good-bye,  too — why  don't  you,  Hoddy  ?"  Delia 
demanded.  "Poor,  lonesome  girl — I  don't  mind — kiss 
her." 


CHAPTER  XI 
A  WOMAN'S  JOB 

I  ever  a  human  being  felt  silly  it  was  I,  getting  on  the 
car,  starting  back  to  town,  Delia  waving  after  me, 
then  turning  to  lead  her  husband  away  by  the  arm !  Silly, 
and  mad,  too. 

One  thing  certain — I'd  have  that  work  on  the  "Clarion" 
now  even  if  Stokes  was  all  that  Harvey  said.  I  would 
make  it  answer  for  a  few  weeks,  anyhow,  till  I  could  get 
something  else.  The  more  I  thought  over  my  first  inter- 
view with  Mr.  Stokes  the  more  I  believed  this  possible. 
And  at  five  o'clock  the  next  afternoon,  having  tucked  a 
spray  of  honeysuckle  in  my  brown  belt,  I  went  groping  up 
those  dark  stairs  without  much  concern  as  to  the  hour  of 
my  appointment,  or  the  wording  of  it. 

The  whole  second  floor  was  silent  and  apparently  empty 
as  I  stopped  in  the  upper  hall,  getting  my  first  chill  from 
the  sight  of  open  doors  and  vacant  rooms  in  every  direc- 
tion. If  Mr.  Stokes  had  remembered  the  hour  he  set,  and 
was  there,  he  must  be  the  only  soul  in  the  place.  Had  I 
mistaken  the  time  ?  Or  was  I  possibly  late  ?  I  pulled  out 
the  thin,  old-fashioned  gold  watch  I  carried — my  father's 
— and  managed  there  in  the  dim  light  to  see  the  hands.  It 
was  exactly  five  o'clock.  Straight  ahead  of  me  was  Mr. 
Stokes's  door,  the  only  closed  one  in  sight.  I  went  and 
knocked  on  it.  Somebody  inside  got  up,  I  heard  a  heavy 
step ;  the  knob  turned,  and  there  he  stood. 

"Well — you  did  come  back,"  he  said  as  though  he  had 
hardly  expected  it,  led  the  way  in  and  over  toward  his 
table,  left  me  there  staring  while,  without  explanation,  he 
tramped  across  to  the  big  front  windows  and  pulled  down 
the  shades.  For  a  moment  the  room  was  almost  dark,  but 

181 


182  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

as  he  returned  he  snapped  on  the  lights,  and  still  without 
looking  at  me  or  saying  anything,  went  back  to  the  door 
and  turned  the  key  in  it ! 

I  can  hear  yet  the  click  of  that  key  as  it  shot  the  bolt.  I 
don't  know  what  I  expected,  but  it  certainly  was  not  to 
have  him  come  and  roll  into  his  own  chair,  motioning  at 
the  same  time  toward  that  one  whose  back  I  was  gripping 
with  rigid  fingers,  and  say  querulously, 

"Sit  down — sit  down!" 

I  dropped  into  the  chair,  weak  with  relief  in  spite  of  the 
locked  door  and  the  lowered  shades.  His  manner  was  com- 
monplace ;  I  should  have  been  more  relieved  by  it  if  I  had 
not  felt  a  pressure  against  my  boot  toe. 

"Just  a  minute,"  he  said,  sorting,  numbering,  packing 
up  some  sheets  of  paper  on  his  desk. 

I  moved  my  feet,  but  it  wasn't  any  use — I  couldn't  get 
them  anywhere  that  his  did  not  eventually  follow  and  find 
them.  Presently  he  finished,  pushed  away  the  copy,  tipped 
back  in  his  chair  like  a  performing  elephant  and  stared  at 
me. 

"Are  you  figuring  on  a  writing  job  here?"  he  asked. 
Then,  without  giving  me  time  to  reply,  "You're  not  going 
to  get  it.  Nothing  doing,  Sis." 

"Well,"  I  took  him  up,  "what  are  you  going  to  offer 
me  ?  You  didn't  tell  me  to  come  here  and  listen  to  you 
say  that  there  was  no  place  for  me.  You  could  have  said 
that  yesterday.  You  could  have  told  me  over  the  tele- 
phone. What  are  you  going  to  give  me  ?" 

He  chuckled  and  rolled  his  head  on  his  big  shoulders. 

"Now  don't  you  get  in  a  hurry,"  he  warned.  "You 
won't  like  it  when  you  hear  about  it.  We  need  a  roust- 
about in  the  office — someone  to  look  after  the  cuts  and  clip- 
pings and  wait  on  me — fetch  and  carry.  A  sort  of  office 
girl.  If  you  could  do  shorthand " 

"I  can,"  I  interrupted. 

"Why  didn't  you  say  so  before  ?" 


A  WOMAN'S  JOB  183 

'Because  you  never  gave  me  a  chance.    I'm  just  through 
the  Phipps  Business  College.     I " 

"A  beginner,"  he  cheapened  my  attainments.  "Well,  I 
reckon  you  can  take  some  letters  for  me,  and — um — 
maybe  I'll  try  you  out  at  reporting.  I  might  have  you 
along  now  and  then  on  an  interview.  Maybe — I'll  see 
about  that." 

"The  pay "    I  was  beginning  when  he  cut  me  short. 

"Nine  dollars  a  week.  Big  pay  for  what  you've  got  to 
do.  You'll  only  be  responsible  for  the  cuts  and  clip- 
pings in  the  library,  keep  the  run  of  them  so  that  you  can 
dig  up  anything  that  I  or  Mr.  Mears  or  the  reporters  ask 
for  at  a  minute's  notice ;  you'll  have  plenty  of  spare  time 
for  all  the  stenography  I  need,  and  you'll  be  ready  to  do 
anything  else  that's  asked  of  you — roustabout — rousta- 
bout's what  we  call  it." 

His  chair  thumped  down  to  the  floor ;  his  foot  met  mine 
with  a  stronger  pressure.  It  was  up  to  me.  I  looked  at 
the  big,  powerful ,  animal,  with  his  bull  neck,  his  thick 
hands,  the  sensual  mouth.  I  felt  the  secure  atmosphere 
of  mastery  that  enveloped  him.  Every  nerve  grew  still. 
Could  I  take  the  job  ?  Could  I  cope  with  this  man  ?  My 
voice,  speaking,  startled  me: 

"Can  I  go  to  work  in  the  morning?"  was  what  I  said. 

He  didn't  answer.  He  was  staring  at  my  gloved  hands 
as  they  lay  in  my  lap.  He  reached  forward  and  picked 
one  of  them  up,  holding  it  a  moment  looking  down  at  it. 
Suddenly  he  caught  the  wrist  of  the  glove  and  stripped 
back  the  kid. 

"Huh — not  much  of  a  hand,"  he  said  in  a  queer,  husky 
tone.  "Not  much  of  a  hand  to  earn  a  living  with." 

It  did  look  small  and  very  white  against  his  big,  brown, 
primitive  paw.  I  didn't  pull  away,  but  got  to  my  feet  in- 
stantly; he  held  on  and  kept  looking  at  the  bare  hand  as 
he  had  looked  at  the  glove.  My  wedding  ring  seemed  to 
catch  his  attention^  for  he  touched  it  with  a  blunt  fore- 


184.  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

finger,  appeared  as  though  he  would  speak  of  it,  then,  with 
an  odd  jerking  up  of  his  head,  which  tossed  back  the  great 
thatch  of  hair  from  his  forehead,  patted  the  hand  a  little 
with  a  curious  naivete,  and  dropped  it. 

I  went  quickly  to  the  door.  He  trundled  unconcern- 
edly after,  reached  past  me  and  unlocked  it  to  let  me  out, 
remarking, 

"Got  to  turn  a  key  here  in  this  office  if  you  don't  want 
everybody  to  know  your  business — before  you  know  it 
yourself." 

Was  it  going  to  be  possible  to  hold  this  job?  The 
question  seemed  a  pressing  one  when  I  went  down  to  the 
"Clarion"  office  next  day ;  it  grew  less  pressing  as  the  prac- 
tical aspects  of  the  mere  work  demanded  pretty  nearly  all 
of  my  attention.  Mr.  Stokes  gave  me  enough  for  two  peo- 
ple to  do.  He  was  a  hard  driver,  but  not  on  that  account 
disagreeable  to  work  for,  and  he  was  certainly  an  able 
editor.  The  other  girls  and  women  employed  about  the 
establishment  got  along  with  him  the  best  they  could,  and 
according  to  what  they  were.  When  their  positions  didn't 
depend  on  him,  some  of  them  flared  up.  The  red-headed 
forewoman  in  the  bindery  was  a  tartar. 

"You're  not  my  boss,"  I  heard  her  saying  to  him  one 
morning — and  she  went  into  his  own  office  to  say  it,  too. 
"You  keep  out  of  my  department,  Mr.  Stokes.  Let  me 
alone,  and  let  the  girls  that  work  there  alone." 

I  didn't  know  what  he'd  done,  but  he  just  laughed  at 
her.  He  didn't  seem  to  mind  my  hearing,  either.  He 
knew  he  was  a  town  scandal  and  rather  liked  it. 

As  for  me,  I  was  among  those  he  hired  and  fired.  I 
had  to  get  along  with  him  or  leave.  So  did  more  than  one 
woman  reporter  during  the  time  I  stayed  there.  I  don't 
think  I  could  have  stuck  it  out  even  the  first  week,  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  Miss  Bailey,  who  was  the  assistant  editor, 
and  Mrs.  Stokes's  sister.  Her  desk  was  in  Mr.  Stokes's 
room.  She  did  all  the  editorial  work  that  he  did  not  cover ; 


HUH NOT  MUCH  OF  A  HAND,   HE  SAID  IN  A 

QUEER,  HUSKY  TONE.  "NOT  MUCH  OF  A  HAND 
TO  EARN  A  LIVING  WITH" 


A  WOMAN'S  JOB  185 

society,  book  reviews,  exchanges,  and  licking  into  shape  the 
work  of  the  reporters — a  sulky,  dissastified,  incompetent 
cub  of  a  boy,  and  some  hard-faced,  objectionable-looking 
girls.  As  to  these  latter,  it  was  none  of  my  business;  I 
didn't  set  up  to  judge  them — I  tried  not  to  know — but  I 
couldn't  help  seeing  that  all  the  favours,  and  any  good 
chance,  went  to  someone  whom  Mr.  Stokes  could  describe 
as  "a  sensible  little  woman,"  or  "a  good  friend  of  mine." 
There  was  a  continual  coming  and  going  among  these 
folks;  Miss  Bailey  used  to  fairly  curse  over  their  miser- 
able copy.  Occasionally  she'd  get  one  of  them  discharged 
that  way.  But  Mr.  Stokes  wouldn't  give  me  any  real 
newspaper  work ;  I  soon  saw  that. 

Miss  Bailey — Rosalie,  and  the  name  was  sort  of  pathetic 
for  her — had  a  withered  left  arm.  That  entire  side  was 
slightly  paralysed,  and  had  been  from  birth,  so  that  the 
helpless  hand  was  smaller  that  her  other,  that  side  of  her 
face  affected,  and  she  spoke  rather  indistinctly.  She 
might  have  been  handsome  if  it  hadn't  been  for  this  afflic- 
tion. It  was  touching  to  see  her  so  brave  and  active,  man- 
aging her  work  with  queer  deftness,  giving  that  little 
swinging  hand  things  to  hold,  putting  its  glove  on  it  with 
the  help  of  her  teeth.  Pessimistic,  yet  with  a  sort  of  hardy 
good  spirits,  she  treated  her  Editor,  to  whom  she  spoke  as 
little  as  she  possibly  could,  with  brief,  dry  contempt. 

My  work  was  mostly  in  a  sort  of  lumber  room  that  they 
called  the  library,  dirty,  full  of  books,  files,  cuts  and 
clippings.  My  typewriter  stood  in  a  little  cubby  off  the 
place  where  the  reporters  worked.  I  acquired  the  knack 
of  keeping  myself  out  of  reach  when  I  was  in  Mr.  Stokes's 
room,  had  the  door  open  as  much  as  possible,  and  did  his 
personal  work  largely  when  Miss  Bailey  was  in.  Always 
overworked,  she  would  have  drawn  me  into  her  department 
if  he  had  not  been  determinedly  against  it.  Yet  she  did 
ask  me  to  get  some  society  items  for  her  from  Miss 
Chandler. 


186  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

"Got  a  place  on  the  'Clarion'  ?"  said  Eugenia  when  I 
went  to  her  for  them.  She  studied  me  a  minute.  "Well, 
newspaper  work  isn't  so  bad.  I'm  sure  I  wish  you  luck," 
and  she  gave  me  the  items  I'd  asked  for.  My  work  on  the 
"Clarion"  brought  me  in  contact  with  her  more  than  once 
after  that,  and  she  never  so  long  as  I  held  my  job  made 
any  reference  to  what  had  earlier  been  said  between  us. 

When  I  asked  Mr.  Dale  what  he  thought  about  the 
new  position,  he  said  it  seemed  a  pretty  good  idea  if  I 
could  get  any  chance  at  what  the  cubs  were  doing — police 
court  reporting,  fires  and  murders — stuff  with  life  in  it — 
and  death — outside  of  Rosalie's  division. 

Delia  had  a  sort  of  comfortable  automatic  fashion  of 
scolding  me  for  not  coming  to  see  her  more,  and  once  or 
twice  made  an  appointment  to  take  me  to  a  matinee  or  an 
interesting  club  meeting  in  the  afternoon.  I  explained  to 
her  that  I  was  keeping  up  some  of  my  outside  work,  and 
that  I  was  pretty  tired  most  of  the  time  when  I  was  out  of 
the  office.  Sundays  and  evenings  when  Harvey  was  there, 
I  would  not  go,  but  I  always  did  run  over  for  a  few  min- 
utes at  other  times  when  I  was  out  to  Mrs.  Eccles's. 

I  didn't  care  what  Harvey  thought  about  it,  but  one  day 
when  I  met  him  on  the  street  he  put  himself  squarely  in 
my  way  and  stopped  me  with : 

"Well,  still  at  the  'Clarion'  office?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  "and  I'm  due  there  right  now." 

He  turned  and  caught  step  with  me,  eyeing  me  sidewise, 
getting  ready,  I  could  see,  to  quarrel.  I  didn't  help  him 
to  begin,  and  we  were  pretty  nearly  to  the  office  when  he 
said, 

"Calla — how  does  Bill  Stokes  treat  you?" 

"Like  a  father."  I  looked  squarely  up  at  Harvey,  and 
he  certainly  was  mad. 

"Like  the  devil!"  he  retorted.  "Here — hold  on,"  for 
we  had  reached  the  foot  of  the  outside  stairs,  and  I  was 
about  to  go  up  without  another  word. 


A  WOMAN'S  JOB  187 

"Well  ?"     I  waited  impatiently. 

"Why  don't  you  ever  drop  in  at  the  Cronin  Building — 
like  you  used  to  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  went  there  on  business,  Harvey,"  I  said  with  a  little 
spurt  of  temper.  "At  present  I  haven't  got  any  business 
there — so  I  don't  go.  And  now  while  we're  speaking  about 
it,  let  me  say  that  you've  made  it  so  that  I  don't  feel  like 
visiting  at  your  house,  either.  I  hate  that,  because  Delia 
and  I  are  old  friends,  and " 

But  Harvey  had  walked  on.  He  wasn't  going  to  listen 
to  anything  like  that.  Up  to  this  time  he  had  never  been 
in  the  "Clarion"  office  since  I  was  there.  Miss  Bailey 
said  the  firm  had  quarrelled  with  the  "Clarion"  manage- 
ment, but  now  this  appeared  to  be  patched  up,  for  he  began 
coming  there  frequently,  and  would  be  out  and  in  most  any 
time. 

One  afternoon  when  I  was  working  in  the  office  alone 
the  'phone  rang,  and  when  I  answered  I  got  Harvey's  voice* 
over  the  wire  asking  if  Mr.  Stokes  was  in. 

"No,"  I  said,  trying  to  make  my  voice  different; 
"but  if  you'll  leave  your  number  I'll  have  him  call  you 
up." 

"Who  is  there  ?"  I  could  get  the  agitation  in  Harvey's 
tones  even  through  the  telephone.  "Calla — are  you 
alone?"  I  didn't  answer,  and  he  spoke  again,  "Calla — 
it  is  you,  isn't  it  ?" 

"What  number  did  you  say  ?  I'll  have  Mr.  Stokes  call 
you  up  when  he  comes  in,"  I  repeated. 

"You  can't  fool  me,  honey,"  I  knew  that  Harvey  was 
bending  close  to  the  receiver,  almost  whispering  into  it. 
"Calla — why  don't  you  ever  come  in  to  see  me  in  the  even- 
ings like  .you  used  to  ?  I  want  to  take  you  out  for  a  little 
spin  in  the  car.  We  could  go " 

"What  number ?" 

"Come  this  evening" 

"No." 


188  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

"To-morrow,  then." 

"No.    I'll  tell  Mr.  Stokes  you  rang  him  up." 

"Calla " 

I  hung  up  the  'phone. 

That  was  the  last  I  saw  or  heard  of  him.  Month  fol- 
lowed month  till  three  of  them  had  passed.  I  was  working 
so  hard  that  I  had  almost  forgotten  everything  outside 
when  one  day  I  heard  a  familiar  voice  in  Mr.  Stokes's 
room,  and  then  somebody  came  to  the  door  and  looked  into 
the  cubby-hole  where  my  machine  stood.  It  was  Harvey. 
He  stopped  there  and  spoke  rather  loud,  since  I  was  using 
the  typewriter. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Baird — how  goes  the  work?" 

"Pretty  well,  thank  you,"  I  answered  both  questions. 

I  went  on  with  my  typing,  and  he  seemed  quite  set  back. 
Finally  he  came  in  and  stood  very  close,  looking  down  at 
my  hands. 

"Please — Calla,"  he  whispered. 

"Please  what?" 

"You  know  what  I  want  well  enough." 

"I  don't,"  without  looking  up  from  my  machine. 

"Just  a  little  visit  with  you — the  car — five  o'clock — 
please,  Calla !" 

"No,"  I  said  explosively,  and  looked  straight  into  Miss 
Bailey's  face  where  she  stood  in  the  door  behind  Harvey, 
grinning. 

"Cal,"  she  drawled  with  that  queer  little  blur  on  her 
words,  "pitch  the  man  out.  I  want  to  come  in.  There 
ain't  room  for  three  of  us  in  here." 

She  had  some  copying  to  give  me,  and  Harvey  left.  As 
he  went  she  looked  after  him. 

"All  alike — ain't  they?"  she  said.  Then,  in  a  more 
hopeful  tone,  as  she  faced  the  hooks  behind  the  door  where 
my  hat  and  jacket  hung,  "Where  you  catch'em  lid  ?  Hats 
ain't  all  alike,  and  that's  a  cinch." 

She  was  edging  up  to  my  new  straw  sailor,  swinging  her 


A  WOMAN'S  JOB  189 

good  side  around  so  as  to  be  able  to  get  it  down  for  closer 
inspection. 

"The  basement  at  Snow's — paid  two  bits  for  it,  and  put 
the  band  and  quill  on  for  myself,"  I  said. 

"I — call — that — chicle!"  She  turned  it  slowly  round 
on  her  doubled  fist.  "Cal,  you've  sure  got  the  touch."  She 
tilted  her  head  on  one  side  and  narrowed  her  eyes. 
"Darned  if  you  haven't  made  the  thing  look  like  you,  too. 
I'd  know  that  lid  for  yours,  if  I  met  it  in  Hong  Kong." 


CHAPTER  XII 

ADVICE 

BOY  thrived.  He  was  such  a  robust,  turbulent  little 
chap — I  wished  he  might  have  playmates.  But  if 
he  wanted  a  romp  with  Fairy,  even,  he  had  to  go  over  to 
Delia's,  and  Mrs.  Eccles  grumbled  because  he  was  there 
so  much.  I  went  out  unexpectedly  once,  late  in  the  after- 
noon, and  found  her  alone. 

"Over  at  Mrs.  Watkins's,"  she  sort  of  sniffed,  when  I 
asked  for  Boy.  "Mrs.  Watkins  has  got  the  idea  that  it 
pleases  her  husband  to  have  Jawn  about.  He  wouldn't  go 
all  the  time  if  she  didn't  coax  him." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  they're  so  fond  of  him,"  I  tried  to 
smooth  matters. 

"You  may  be  pleased,"  she  said  rather  sourly,  "but  it's 
not  good  for  the  child.  Mrs.  Watkins  doesn't  know  a 
thing  in  the  world  about  the  care  of  them.  I  had  Jawn  all 
systematised,  and  they  let  him  eat  any  time  of  day,  and 
feed  him  things  no  child  should  have." 

"I'll  run  over  there  and  see  him,"  I  said. 

"Send  him  right  back  home,"  Mrs.  Eccles  called  after 
me  as  I  was  leaving.  "I'm  making  waists  for  him  out  of 
some  old  white  linen  dresses  of  Mrs.  Watkins's.  I  want 
him  to  try  on." 

I  found  Boyce  playing  with  the  dog  in  the  back  yard  at 
the  Watkins  house,  tearing  around  looking  mighty  hand- 
some in  a  beautiful  waist — no  doubt  the  first  of  the  made- 
overs  from  Delia's  frocks.  He  seemed  very  appropriate  in 
that  place  of  watered  flowers,  shaven  sod  and  trim  brick 
walls,  like  a  little  prince.  As  he  ran  toward  me  whooping, 
Wo  Far  came  to  the  kitchen  door  with  a  little  cake  he  had 
baked  for  my  son.  I  had  a  guilty  feeling  that  Mrs.  Eccles 

190 


ADVICE  191 

might  frown  upon  me  for  not  interfering,  but  I  thanked 
the  Chinaman  myself  as  I  started  to  lead  Boyce  away. 
We  were  just  getting  around  the  side  of  the  house  when 
Delia  popped  her  head  out  of  an  upstairs  window,  her  hair 
all  down,  a  curler  in  her  hand,  crying, 

"Did  I  hear  Foncie  down  there?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  "Mrs.  Eccles  wants  Boy.  I'll  be 
back  in  a  minute." 

"Come  and  sit  with  me  while  I  dress,"  Delia  called  as 
the  child  and  I  rushed  away. 

I  saw  Boy  past  the  only  street  he  would  have  to  cross, 
and  turned  back  to  Delia,  going  in  through  the  entry  and 
up  the  back  stairs  to  her  room.  I  found  her  with  evening 
clothes  laid  out  on  the  bed,  herself  dressed  as  to  her  skirts 
and  feet,  a  kimono  drawn  over  her  corset  cover  and  bare 
arms,  sitting  at  the  dressing  table  doing  her  hair. 

"It's  a  dirty  shame  I  can't  ask  you  to  stay  for  dinner," 
she  said,  reaching  up  to  kiss  me,  the  lock  she  was  placing 
still  in  her  fingers.  "Tell  you  what,  Foncie,  you  come 
Sunday  after  next.  We're  out  ourselves  next  Sunday. 
Bring  Jack;  Wo  Far  makes  us  eat  at  two  o'clock,  Sun- 
days." 

"All  right,"  I  said ;  "and  Boy  will  love  it." 

"Wish  you'd  let  me  know  beforehand  that  you'd  be  out 
here  to-day — I'd  have  had  you  this  evening.  But 
Harve  'phoned  a  while  ago  for  me  to  come  in  and  have 
dinner  with  him  and  go  to  see  'The  Blue  Bird.'  Would 
you  like  to  go  with  us  ?  I  expect  he  could  get  another 
ticket." 

"No,"  I  said  positively ;  I  had  looked  a  good  while  at  a 
four-bit  piece  that  would  have  let  me  into  the  gallery,  and 
decided  that  I  could  spare  neither  it  nor  the  hours  of  sleep. 
"No,  Delia — don't  ask  him.  I  heard  before  I  left  town 
that  the  house  was  all  sold  out." 

"Is  it?"  Delia  returned  to  her  hairdressing  with  re- 
newed energy,  and  spoke  part  of  the  time  with  hairpins  in 


192  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

her  mouth.  "Harve's  crazy  about  it.  He  got  the  book 
for  Jack — wanted  to  take  him  to  see  the  play,  too.  Mrs. 
Eccles  put  her  foot  down  on  that.  Of  course  the  child 
couldn't  stay  awake."  She  got  up  and  shook  her  skirts. 
"I  suppose  now  you're  on  the  paper  you  don't  see  much  of 
Mr.  Dale  any  more  ?"  She  began  to  get  into  the  theatre 
waist  that  I  was  to  hook  up. 

"About  as  much  as  ever,"  I  replied.  "I  do  his  work 
after  I  come  back  at  night.  Why  ?" 

Delia  laughed  self-consciously,  and  even  her  good, 
honest  face  put  on  that  curious,  sickly,  silly  expression  that 
I  had  seen  on  the  faces  of  so  many  women  when  they  spoke 
of  or  to  Frank  Hollis  Dale.  No  wonder  that  he  rather 
despised  the  sex  if  this  was  the  way  he  generally  saw  them ! 

"The  Laurel  Wreath  wants  to  give  him  a  reception  while 
the  State  Federation's  here,"  Delia  explained. 

"When  will  it  be?"  I  asked. 

"Next  month — the  Federation;  but  I  don't  know  that 
the  reception  will  be  at  all,"  Delia  said  plaintively.  "Mrs. 
Ballinger  went  with  a  committee  of  invitation  to  see  if  they 
couldn't  make  sure  of  him — and  he  put  them  off.  They 
had  to  see  him  at  the  college,  because  of  that  ironclad  rule 
of  no  visitors  at  the  bungalow.  Oh,  Foncie,  you  don't 
know  how  many  women  here  in  San  Vicente  would  give 
their  eye  teeth  to  have  the  privilege  that  you  get  paid  for ! 
Don't  laugh — they  would." 

"I  can't  help  laughing,"  I  said.  "Besides,  I  don't  get 
paid  for  it." 

"Foncie!" 

"Well,  I  started  doing  practice  work  for  Mr.  Dale,  and 
I  guess  he's  forgotten  that  I'm  out  of  school  now  and 
might  expect  to  be  earning  something." 

"Is  he  mean  about  money  ?" 

"He's — well,  your  friends  have  to  have  their  little  fail- 
ings, and " 

"Think  of  being  able  to  call  such  a  man  as  that  your 


ADVICE  193 

friend!  Delia  broke  in.  "Foncie — do  you  believe  you 
could  get  him  to  come  to  the  Laurel  Wreath  reception? 
Will  you  try  ?  I'd  do  anything  on  earth  for  you." 

"You've  done  a  great  deal  for  me,  already,  Delia,"  I 
said  heartily.  "I  have  a  reason —  I  broke  off,  con- 
fused—  "I  have  every  reason  for  wishing  specially  to  do 
anything  you  want  of  me.  But — I  don't  like  to  ask 
favours  of  men." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?  Are  you  hinting  about 
Mr.  Dale  ?" 

"I  certainly  am  not,"  I  said  explicitly;  "but  I  don't 
want  to  ask  any  favours  of  him  either,  Delia.  My  instinct 
is  against  it." 

"Oh — your  instinct,"  Delia  looked  so  bewildered  that  I 
was  hurried  into  telling  something  I  should  have  preferred 
to  keep. 

"He  thinks  I  can  make  a  writer  of  myself.  He's  done 
a  lot  for  me  in  the  way  of  advice,  and  he  asked  me  to  say 
nothing  about  it  because  he's  refused  others." 

"I  should  say  he  has !"  exclaimed  Delia.     "Why  the 

t/  •/ 

local  Federation  pretty  nearly  went  down  on  its  knees  to 
that  man  to  get  him  to  give  one  little,  measly  critical  talk 
to  our  literary  section.  We  all  took  up  Aztec  art  and  his- 
tory— heaven  knows  it's  the  dullest  thing  any  human  being 
ever  studied — hoping  to  get  hold  of  him  that  way,  and 
we  offered  to  pay  anything  he'd  ask.  Foncie,  as  long  as 
he's  done  you  one  favour  why  not  ask  another  ?  Get  him 
to  come  to  our  reception." 

"You'd  see  that  I  can't,"  I  said,  "if  you'd  ever  sat  as  I 
have  and  heard  him  talking  with  Dr.  Eush.  He  loathes 
being  lionised — he  says  it  in  so  many  words." 

"I  don't  care  whether  he  likes  it  or  not,"  Delia  hung  on, 
"I  want  him  anyhow.  I  think  you  might  do  this  for  me, 
Foncie.  Harve  and  I  have  been  discussing  something  for 
you — real  important — it  would  give  you  a  chance  in  the 
world.  I  can't  tell  you  about  it  yet,  but  it  seems  to  me 


194  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

that  asking  a  man  to  go  to  a  reception  would  be  a  small 
return.  Mr.  Dale's  already  had  our  note.  All  we  want  is 
for  you  to  speak  to  him  about  it  and  get  a  definite  answer." 

"I  can't  ask  favours  of  men,"  I  repeated  conclusively. 

"I  suggested  your  going  and  asking  a  man  for  a  place 
on  the  paper,"  Delia  said,  with  a  shrug  that  nettled  me. 
"That  worked  pretty  well,  didn't  it  ?" 

"Pretty  well,"  I  echoed  her  words  dryly. 

"You  don't  seem  very  enthusiastic.  I'm  afraid  Hoddy 
prejudiced  you  with  his  talk  about  there  being  no  chance 
to  get  ahead  in  the  'Clarion'  office." 

I  was  hooking  her  up,  and  I  looked  straight  into  her 
eyes  in  the  glass,  as  I  said, 

"Oh,  yes,  there  is.  There's  one  chance  to  get  on  in  that 
office."  " 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Mr.  Stokes  could  promote  me  if  he  wanted  to." 

"Well — can't  you  keep  on  the  good  side  of  him  ?" 

"I  don't  think  I'd  call  it  his  good  side.  There — you're 
done  now.  Does  the  girdle  go  over  or  under  these  loops  ?" 

"Through  them.  Foncie — what  is  it  about  Mr.  Stokes  ? 
Doesn't  he  behave  to  you  as  a  gentleman  should  ?" 

I  laughed  out. 

"Never  mind,"  I  said.     "I'm  sorry  I  spoke." 

Delia  gave  up  her  dressing,  sat  down  and  pulled  me 
down  beside  her. 

"What's  the  matter  ?  I've  a  right  to  know — I  as  good 
as  got  you  the  place." 

"I'm  not  going  to  say  another  word." 

"Yes  you  are."  Delia  whacked  for  emphasis  with  her 
hair-brush  on  the  dresser.  "I  want  you  to  tell  me  exactly 
what's  happened  to  make  you  talk  that  way  about  Mr. 
Stokes." 

"Oh — nothing  much,"  I  said  with  a  sense  of  irritation. 
"Harvey  was  right  about  him — that's  all." 

"Oh,  Foncie,  I  did  think  you  were  too  bright  to  keep  up 


ADVICE  195 

the  silly,  sentimental  ideas  you  got  in  a  little  place  like 
Stanleyton.  You've  no  business  with  them  in  a  city." 

"Sentimental — what  do  you  mean?"  I  demanded. 

"Flirting  with  every  man  you  meet ;  thinking  they're  all 
in  love  with  you — thinking  about  those  things  at  all — 
that's  what  I  mean.  You'll  find  that  sex  and  economics 
don't  mix,  Foncie." 

"I  wish  the  men  were  of  your  opinion,"  I  flared.  "I 
didn't  bring  my  ideas  to  San  Vicente.  Trouble  met  me 
on  the  way  here." 

"Trouble  ?" 

"Yes.  Oh,  you  don't  know  anything  about  it.  Men 
who  would  treat  you  with  perfect  respect  will  walk  up  to 
me  and " 

"Oh — "  Delia's  voice  made  a  little  offended  slide  on 
the  syllable —  "do  you  mean  that  you're  so  much  more 
attractive  than  I  am?" 

"Attractive?"  It  burst  upon  me  that  she  considered 
this  sort  of  thing  a  compliment.  "For  heaven's  sake — no ! 
I  suppose  any  woman  thrown  out  into  the  world  helpless 
to  earn  her  living,  without  family  backing,  finds  just  what 
I've  found." 

"People  find  what  they're  looking  for,  Foncie."  Delia 
shook  her  head.  "I'm  never  looking  for  anything  im- 
proper— er — off  colour.  I  dislike  to  hear  about  it  even. 
What  did  you  mean  by  saying  that  trouble  met  you  on 
your  way  to  San  Vicente  ?" 

I  laughed  so  that  it  made  Delia  mad  at  last.  I  was 
sorry  for  that,  and  hurried  to  say, 

"The  first  man  I  met  at  the  railroad  station  took  me  for 
a  runaway  schoolgirl,  and  proposed  to  pick  me  up  as  he 
would  have  picked  up  a  woman  off  the  streets." 

"A  man  on  the  railway."  Delia's  eyes  were  round. 
"Well,  I  know  who  that  is.  You  told  me  yourself  about 
the  Tipton  boy— 

"Delia!"  I  cried  aghast,  "you  mustn't — it  isn't  fair. 


196  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

Poor  Joe's  been  one  of  the  kindest  friends  I  ever  had. 
He's  just  a  child " 

"He's  a  little  drunkard.  Everybody  knows  that  his 
wildness  is  breaking  his  mother's  heart.  I  notice  you 
haven't  denied  that  it  was  Joe  Tipton." 

"Certainly  I  deny  it.  It  wasn't  Joe.  Oh,  I  wish  I  had 
never  said  such  a  word  to  you !" 

"And  he's  a  man  that  treats  me  respectfully?"  Delia 
was  groping. 

"I  suppose  he  would — of  course." 

"Does  he  live  in  San  Vicente  ?" 

She  saw  by  my  look  that  she  had  guessed  right,  and 
tried  again. 

"In  Las  Reudas  ?" 

My  face  began  to  burn. 

"Right  here  near  us? — Yes — yes,  he  does!  I  see  it — 
you  needn't  deny  it." 

"Now,  Delia,  I  never  said " 

"On  which  side  of  the  street  ?  Across  ?  It  couldn't  be 
Mr.  Steffins  ?  He's  a  minister — but  he  does  travel  a  good 
deal.  Who  was  it,  Foncie  ?  Don't  be  mean.  Come  on — 
tell  me.  Who  was  it  ?" 

Why  couldn't  I  have  kept  my  mouth  shut  ?  Now  Delia 
would  be  eyeing  every  man  on  the  block  with  suspicion, 
trying  to  fit  the  story  to  him — and  ten  chances  to  one  never 
thinking  of  the  real  culprit. 

"Please  let  it  drop,  Dele,"  I  urged. 

"Maybe  you  were  mistaken."  Delia's  tone  was  full  of 
disappointment.  She  grabbed  up  the  powder  puff  and 
began  dusting  her  nose.  "You  always  were  that  way, 
Foncie,  dear.  You  believed  that  every  boy  in  town  was 
crazy  about  you.  Of  course  it  hadn't  taken  any  morbid 
turn  in  your  mind  then — naturally  it  wouldn't,  at  that 
early  age — but  didn't  you  even  tell  me,  when  I  was  visit- 
ing at  Uncle  Rob's,  that  Harve — my  old  Hoddy — had  been 
one  of  your  admirers  before  I  met  him  ?" 


ADVICE  197 

"It's  a  long  time  ago,  and  not  worth  quarrelling  over, 
Delia,  but  the  fact  is  I  never  said  anything  of  the  sort  to 
you.  Anyhow  there's  quite  a  difference  between  a  school- 
girl's idea  that  somebody  admires  her,  and  a  divorced 
woman  finding  that  most  of  the  men  she's  thrown  in  con- 
tact with  regard  her  as  of  easy  virtue." 

"Foncie!  What  a  vulgar  phrase!  I  never  heard  it 
spoken  before  in  my  life;  you  must  have  got  it  out  of  a 
bad  French  novel.  I'm  afraid  you  just  make  up  your 
mind  that  the  men  mean  something  wrong,  and  behave  as 
if  they  did — and  there  you  are." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "there  I  am.  I  want  to  go  around  past 
Mrs.  Eccles's,  so  I  think  I'll  take  the  other  line.  Good- 
bye." 

"Well,  don't  fly  off  like  that,"  Delia  dived  for  her  hat, 
gloves,  opera  glasses  and  motor  wrap,  since  they  would  be 
coming  home  in  the  machine.  "Wait  a  minute  and  I'll  walk 
as  far  as  the  street  with  you." 

Not  another  word  was  said  till  we  got  to  the  front  door, 
then  Delia  began, 

"Foncie,  I  don't  want  you  to  get  the  impression  that  I'm 
picking  at  you,  but  indeed  and  truly  I  feel  you  need  a  word 
of  advice.  Look  at  me — and  the  women  I  go  with.  We 
take  up  subjects  of  study  that  develop  the  mind  and  keep 
it  from  running  on  such  things  as  you've  been  talking 
about." 

"Study,"  I  echoed —     "Aztec  art,  for  instance." 

I  knew  it  was  hateful,  but  by  this  time  I  was  too  mad 
to  care. 

"Yes — Aztec  art."  Delia's  voice  wabbled  a  little,  but 
she  wouldn't  give  up.  "That  sort  of  thing  broadens  a 
woman.  It  makes  her  attractive  to  the  right  kind  of  men 
in  the  right  kind  of  way." 

"But  not  attractive  enough  to  get  them  to  come  to  a 
reception  when  you  want  them  to,"  I  snapped.  "What's 
the  use,  Dele — I've  got  no  time  for  courses  of  study." 


198  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

"Well  you  need  it — or  something.  Your  talk  back  there 
in  the  room  sounded  like  an  oversexed  girl — one  that 
couldn't  associate  with  a  man  on  any  other  ground." 

As  we  moved  in  angry  silence  down  the  walk,  I  stepped 
on  Fairy  and  she  yelped  frightfully.  Delia  glared  at  me, 
as  though  I  had  tried  to  kill  the  little  creature.  When  it 
came  to  where  our  ways  parted  I  stopped  and  faced  her, 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  I'm  that  ?"  I  asked. 

"What?" 

"Oversexed." 
Her  face  crimsoned. 

"I  never  said  such  a  thing,"  she  protested  tartly. 

"You  used  the  word." 

"I  said  that  what  you  said  sounded  like  it,"  she  quib- 
bled. "It  did.  Just  think  a  minute  of  the  string  of  stuff 
you  told  me — why,  you  knocked  every  man  you  mentioned. 
It's  an  awful  habit  to  get  into.  I  wonder " 

She  broke  off  and  looked  up  and  down  the  street.  A 
young  fellow  in  knickerbockers  and  cap  was  crossing  from 
the  direction  of  the  country  club,  a  couple  of  dogs  at  his 
heels.  I  saw  she  was  trying  to  make  up  her  mind  which 
neighbour  of  hers  I  had  accused. 

"Oh,  for  goodness'  sake  don't  begin  on  that  again!"  I 
forestalled  her.  "It  won't  do  you  any  good.  I'm  not  going 
to  tell." 

"Well,  I — "  Delia  began;  then  the  young  fellow  with 
the  dogs  came  abreast  of  us.  As  I  whirled,  he  pulled  off 
his  cap;  I  saw  the  forward  duck  of  the  sleek  dark  head. 
"Good  evening,  Mr.  Pendleton,"  Delia  finished. 

He  stopped  to  shake  hands.  Delia  seemed  pleased,  and 
flustered.  "Let — let  me  present  you  to  my  friend,  Mrs. 
Baird,"  she  offered  effusively. 

Young  Pendleton  slid  an  amused  glance  my  way. 

"Oh,  we're  already  acquainted,"  he  said,  shaking  my 
hand  in  turn.  "I  met  Mrs.  Baird  on  her  way  to  San 
Vicente." 


ADVICE  199 

"Uh— "  Delia  stared.  "Uh— why— yes."  Bewilder- 
ment held  her  quiet.  There  wasn't  anything  I  could  do  ex- 
cept to  cut  it  short  and  get  away,  though  I  did  leave  them 
there  together.  Now  she  would  have  something  to  say  to 
me  at  that  coming  Sunday  dinner !  I  was  prickles  all  over, 
as  I  went  around  for  my  visit  with  Boy.  Yet  later,  riding 
home  in  the  car,  I  laughed  to  myself  half  hysterically. 
Things  were  in  a  foolish,  foolish  mess — but  it  was  funny. 
I  wondered  if  Delia  would  tell  me  next  time  I  met  her 
that  Al  Pendleton  had  always  treated  her  as  a  gentleman 
should !  I  was  sorry  to  have  set  off  a  thing  like  that  about 
her  next  door  neighbour,  and  yet  I  couldn't  let  poor  Joe  Ed 
stand  for  it. 

Joe  Ed  had  taken  to  coming  to  the  house  a  good  deal 
more  than  I  wished  he  would,  waylaying  me  in  the  halls, 
sitting  on  the  couch  down  there  and  strumming  on  his 
ukelele  and  singing  "I  Love  You,  California."  He  said 
"Cap"  would  want  to  know  how  I  was  getting  on.  He  told 
me  of  Bice,  who  hadn't  been  able  to  get  steady  work,  and 
was  drifting  from  one  San  Francisco  saloon  to  another 
doing  odd  jobs.  He  brought  a  gift  for  Boyce  from  the 
negro,  a  minute  silk  handkerchief  of  ferocious  colouring, 
which  appealed  so  directly  to  my  son's  taste  that  it  at  once 
became  almost  a  part  of  his  person.  But  the  last  time  Joe 
Ed  was  up,  I  thought  that  underneath  the  fun  and  banter 
there  was  something  like  worry. 

All  this  was  on  my  mind  as  I  got  off  the  car,  and  it 
seemed  like  an  echo  of  my  thoughts  when  I  heard,  very 
guarded,  sounding  from  the  shadows  of  the  little  alleyway 
that  led  to  M'r.  Dale's  bungalow,  that  same  old  tune 
whistled  as  nobody  but  Joe  Ed  ever  whistled  it.  I  stopped 
in  the  light  of  the  doorway.  The  whistle  stopped  too.  I 
took  a  step  and  got  out  my  key.  The  whistling  started  up 
again  a  little  louder.  I  turned  and  called, 

"Joe — is  that  you?" 

Eor  answer  there  came  a  warning  hiss,  an  arm  waved 


200  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

from  behind  the  vines,  and  I  went  down  to  find  the  boy 
lurking  there. 

"Callie,"  he  said  hurriedly,  "I  want  to  ask  a  favour  of 
you.  Come  back  here  where  it's  dark.  Could  you  pack 
my  extra  things  that  are  on  the  top  shelf  of  your  closet  in 
Billy's  suit-case — it's  under  the  bed  or  around  some- 
where— and  sneak  them  out  to  me  ?  I  hate  to  ask  you, 
but " 

He  broke  off,  and  we  stood  together  in  the  dark  there 
quite  a  minute.  Then  he  reached  out  and  caught  both  my 
hands,  whispering, 

"You're  a  good  little  scout!  I  do  hate  to  ask  you, 
honey !" 

"Good  evening.  Oh,  it's  you,  Mrs.  Baird.  I'd  given 
you  up,  and  was  going  out.  Are  you  intending  to  work 
to-night  ?" 

Mr.  Dale  stopped  and  appeared  to  survey  us.  He  must 
have  had  that  kind  of  eyes  that  can  see  in  the  dark,  for  I 
noticed  that  the  lift  of  his  hat  included  Joe  Ed.  Then  I 
realised  that  coming  from  his  end  of  the  tunnel  he  had  got 
the  silhouette  of  our  figures  against  the  light  of  the  street. 
"Yes,  of  course — if  you  want  me  to." 

"I'll  be  back  in  five  minutes,"  Mr.  Dale  snapped  his 
watch — he  certainly  did  have  cat's  eyes  to  see  it  where  we 
stood.  "I'll  just  go  down  to  the  drug-store  and  get  a 
cigar  and  be  with  you." 

He  passed  on.  The  smoking  was  a  new  thing  which 
Dr.  Rush  had  begun  to  allow  him  only  a  week  ago,  saying 
that  he  was  now  a  practically  sound  man.  As  soon  as  he 
was  gone  I  said  to  Joe  Ed, 

"I'll  get  the  things  right  now  if  you'll  wait  here." 

"Good  girl,"  he  detained  me,  holding  to  my  hand.  "She 
doesn't  ask  why  I  daresn't  go  in  the  house.  Just  like  her. 
Don't  bring  the  stuff  out  yet — somebody  might  see  you. 
I'll  go  along  now,  and  you  meet  me  over  in  the  square  after 
you're  done  with  Dale." 


ADVICE  201 

"It  may  be  pretty  late,"  I  hesitated.  "Sometimes  we 
work  till  after  eleven." 

"All  the  better,"  Joe  Ed  whispered  nervously.  "You'll 
make  sure  that  nobody  sees  you  ?" 

We  had  rather  an  extra  amount  of  work  on  hand  that 
night,  and  I  was  so  uneasy  about  Joe  Ed  that  Mr.  Dale 
finally  asked  me  what  was  the  matter.  Eor  the  sake  of 
having  something  to  say  I  told  him  about  Delia's  plea.  He 
laughed  in  his  usual  half-sarcastic  fashion,  and  made  no 
sort  of  answer.  At  last  we  were  done;  I  got  away  at  a 
quarter  past  eleven. 

It  took  me  only  a  few  minutes  to  pack  the  suit-case,  for 
I  had  sorted  out  everything  that  didn't  belong  to  me  weeks 
ago.  Then  there  was  the  question  of  getting  it  to  Joe  Ed 
without  being  seen.  I  opened  the  door  and  cautiously 
scouted  the  halls.  There  seemed  to  be  no  one  in  the  front 
one  downstairs;  but  voices  from  the  kitchen  showed  me 
that  I  might  meet  the  girls  coming  up.  I  covered  the  suit- 
case with  some  loose  garments  as  though  it  had  been  sewing 
for  Miss  Chandler,  took  it  up  in  my  arms  and  ran  breath- 
lessly to  refuge  in  her  little  passageway.  I  was  there  when 
Addie  and  Orma  went  by  up  to  their  room.  I  dropped  off 
the  garments  and  left  them,  slipping  on  down  the  big 
stairway,  finding  a  light  in  the  front  hall,  but  the  portieres 
were  pulled  in  such  a  way  that  if  there  was  a  late  lingerer 
by  the  hearth,  I  could  get  past  unnoticed. 

Once  out  on  the  street  I  took  a  free  breath,  and  walked 
on,  holding  up  my  head.  I  found  Joe  Ed  over  in  the  little 
square.  He  stepped  out  from  beneath  a  palm  tree  and 
took  the  suit-case  from  me,  thrust  an  arm  through  mine 
and  hurried  me  along  to  the  further  end  of  the  place 
where  a  bench  stood  in  the  shadows.  The  minute  he  spoke 
I  remembered  what  Delia  had  said,  for  it  was  very  plain  he 
had  been  drinking.  He  was  flurried,  excited,  out  of  him- 
self— not  at  all  like  anything  I  had  ever  seen  of  him.  He 
spoke  again  about  my  being  so  good  not  to  ask  questions. 


202  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

"Just  because  you  don't — I'm  going  to  tell  you,"  he 
said.  "I've  got  to  skip.  There  are  papers  out  after  me. 
Some  shyster  lawyer's  got  hold  of  Addie — and — I've  got 
to  skip." 

We  had  taken  the  bench  in  the  shadows,  but  he  couldn't 
sit  still ;  he  got  up  and  pulled  me  with  him,  and  we  walked 
back  and  forth. 

"You've  got  troubles  enough  of  your  own,"  he  went  on, 
"and  here  I'm  dumping  mine  on  your  doorstep.  I'll  bet 
you  hate  me  for  it  all  right." 

"I'm  very  fond  of  you,  Joe.  I'm — glad  to  do  anything 
to  help."  I  said  it  sincerely.  "I  don't  forget  how  good 
you  were  to  me.  You've  always  been  different  from  the 
others.  They " 

"Different!"  he  broke  in,  turning  to  look  down  at  me 
from  his  tall  height.  "Different — like  hell  I  am!  I've 
been  dead  in  love  with  you  from  the  first  minute  I  saw  you 
in  the  vestibule  there — Cap  giving  you  what-for — you 
standing  up  to  him  like  a  soldier.  I  suppose  this  isn't  a 
very  good  time  to  ask  a  lady  to  marry  you — but  you  say 
the  word,  honey,  and  we'll  skip  together.  I've  got  thirty 
dollars  in  my  pocket.  ~Not  much — but  it'd  keep  us  a  few 
days — I  can  always  get  a  job.  What  ?" 

I  laughed  at  him.  Yet  I  don't  suppose  there  ever  was 
the  woman  on  earth  who  could  receive  any  sort  of  a  pro- 
posal of  marriage  without  a  thrill. 

"What's  funny  about  it?"  he  demanded,  pulling  up 
jerkily.  "You've  got  your  divorce — haven't  you  ?  We 
could  get  married  all  righty.  Come  on.  You  don't  think 
so,  but  I'd  take  good  care  of  you." 

"Joe,"  I  spoke  solemnly,  "how  old  are  you  ?" 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?  I'm  good  and  plenty 
taller  than  you  are — see  ?"  He  reached  around  and  meas- 
ured the  height  of  my  head  against  his  shoulder. 

"How  old  are  you  ?"  I  repeated. 


ADVICE  203 

"We-el,"  reluctantly,  in  a  tone  of  argument,  "I'll  vote 
next  Presidential  election." 

"I  could  have  voted  last  election,"  I  said,  "if  I'd  regis- 
tered for  it.  You're  just  a  boy,  Joe.  I'm  a  divorced 
woman,  with  a  child  dependent  upon  me.  You  want  to 
get  it  out  of  your  foolish  mind  that  you're  in  love  with  me." 

"California,"  he  sighed,  dropping  the  suit-case  he  had 
carried  till  now,  putting  both  hands  on  my  shoulders  and 
turning  me  to  such  dim  light  as  there  was,  so  he  could 
look  full  in  my  face,  "you're  no  expert  on  the  love  game — 
I  see  that.  My  mind  ?  Folks  don't  fall  in  love  with  their 
minds.  As  far  as  you  and  I  are  concerned,  I  fell  in  all 
over.  But  let  it  pass,  honey.  Of  course,  you're  dead 
right.  Here  you  are  with  the  kid — and  the  only  helping 
hand  I  give  you  is  when  I  reach  out  and  try  to  pull  you 
into  my  kettle  of  hot  water.  Kiss  me  good-bye — and  I'll 
go." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE    CHANCE   I   GOT 

I  WAS  glad  that  Joe  Ed  had  asked  me  to  sneak  out  his 
runaway  duds;  glad  I  had  been  the  one  to  spare  his 
mother  that.  The  heart  of  such  a  woman  is  as  im- 
penetrable as  a  deep,  deep  pool ;  but  in  the  weeks  that  fol- 
lowed Joe  Ed's  departure,  she  appeared  to  get  thinner  and 
thinner,  and  that  little  fluting  yoice  of  hers  went  up  and 
up  till  it  was  a  mere  chirp.  I  think  nobody  else  noticed 
it,  and  I  only  saw  it  because  I  had  the  key  to  the  situa- 
tion. I  couldn't  say  that  her  manner  toward  me  was 
kinder ;  it  had  always  been  suave  courtesy  itself,  but  I  used 
to  fancy  sometimes  she  lingered  in  my  neighbourhood,  not 
as  if  she  were  going  to  speak,  but  as  if  being  there  was  a 
sort  of  communication. 

I  got  one  letter  from  Joe  Ed  calling  himself  names  and 
apologising;  he  seemed  to  feel  that  he  had  finally  and 
once  for  all  done  for  any  good  opinion  I  might  ever  have 
had  of  him.  Yet  he  was  an  incorrigibly  cheerful  soul ;  he 
said  nobody  was  to  worry  about  him ;  that  he'd  get  along — 
he  always  had.  There  was  no  address.  He  thought  he'd 
keep  on  the  wing  for  a  while.  At  the  end  he  told  me  that 
he  was  ashamed  of  the  way  he  asked  me  to  marry  him — 
but  that  he  meant  it  all  the  same,  and  the  offer  was  still 
open. 

My  own  affairs  at  the  "Clarion"  office  had  shaped  them- 
selves into  a  sort  of  routine ;  I  didn't  trouble  myself  much 
about  Mr.  Stokes  now,  except  when  I  tried  again  to  get 
him  to  give  me  a  really  worth-while  assignment.  He  al- 
ways put  me  off — but  held  out  hopes.  It  kept  me  sitting 
on  the  edge  of  my  chair,  and  mad  enough  to  bite.  He 
certainly  was  a  bully.  Rosalie  said  she  knew  men  like  a 

204 


THE  CHANCE  I  GOT  205 

book.  I  suppose  she  did — but,  according  to  her  view,  the 
story  was  a  disagreeable  one.  I  was  always  asking  her  if 
she  believed  Mr.  Stokes  would  ever  let  me  have  my  chance, 
and  finally  she  said: 

"I'll  tell  you  what  you  do,  Cal.  The  next  time  he  goes 
to  San  Francisco  on  a  drunk — oh,  you  needn't  look  sur- 
prised; that's  all  he  ever  goes  up  there  for;  he  doesn't 
drink  in  San  Vicente — the  next  time  he's  fixing  to  start, 
you  ask  him  for  an  assignment,  and  I'll  back  you.  He's 
easy  when  he  wants  to  get  off  for  a  spree." 

But,  to  my  surprise,  it  was  Mr.  Stokes  himself  who  ac- 
tually made  me  the  offer.  It  was  Saturday  evening ;  I  was 
sitting  later  than  usual,  hurrying  through  some  letters  he 
had  dictated  at  the  last  minute.  I  thought  he  had  already 
left  the  office,  when  I  heard  him  get  up,  come  to  the  open 
door  between  the  rooms;  and  I  could  see  out  of  the  cor- 
ner of  my  eye  that  he  stood  there  staring  at  me. 

"Sis — still  got  writing  ambitions  ?"  he  grunted.  My 
fingers  on  the  keys  stopped  instantly.  I  looked  up. 

"Are  you  going  to  give  me  something  ?" 

"Do  you  think  you  and  Bailey  could  handle  local  pol- 
itics— with  me  away?"  He  kept  looking  at  me.  "I 
reckon  I  oughtn't  to  go  up  to  Frisco  and  leave  you  two 
light-weights  to  hold  this  down." 

"What  is  it  ?"    I  tried  to  be  calm. 

"I've  just  heard  that  Murphy  and  Turk  Thompson  have 
got  a  little  caucus  on  in  the  back  room  of  a  saloon  out  at 
the  edge  of  town  on  Millward  street.  There's  to  be  slate- 
making.  They  won't  get  together  much  before  midnight. 
The  Frisco  train  that  I  want  leaves  at  ten  o'clock,  but  I've 
got  to  stay  over  and  cover  the  thing  because  you  two  fe- 
males would  be  afraid  to  go  out  there." 

"We  wouldn't."  My  voice  wavered  a  little.  "Eosy's 
never  afraid  of  anything.  You  know  it." 

"How  about  you  ?" 

"Just  try  me." 

I  got  up  from  the  machine  with  my  finished  letters  flut- 


206  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

tering  in  my  hands,  I  was  so  excited.  I  was  to  sign  them 
with  a  rubber  stamp  and  get  them  off.  Mr.  Stokes  began 
to  back  out  of  the  doorway. 

"If  Rosalie'll  go,  I  will,"  I  said.  "We'll  be  together. 
Newspaper  reporters  have  to  go  everywhere  at  all  sorts  of 
times." 

"All  right — you  for  it."  He  stumped  back  to  his  desk ; 
I  heard  him  slamming  things  around  and  whistling  as  he 
made  ready — for  San  Francisco,  and  his  spree. 

''Where  do  I  meet  Miss  Bailey — when  ?"  I  called  in  to 
him. 

"Leave  the  car  at  the  corner  of  Millward  and  Chandler 
streets.  She'll  be  waiting.  I  told  you  they  wouldn't  get 
at  it  much  before  midnight,"  and  he  went  whistling  and 
clattering  downstairs  like  a  big,  clumsy  boy  let  out  of 
school. 

I  found  myself  ridiculously  excited,  and  had  to  calm 
down ;  Mrs.  Eccles  was  to  bring  Boy  to  the  Poinsettia  that 
evening  not  earlier  than  six  o'clock.  I  intended  to  keep 
him  for  the  night,  a  thing  I  had  managed  twice  before 
without  Mrs.  Thrasher's  knowing  of  it.  She  made  no  ob- 
jection to  his  daylight  visits,  but  I  knew  without  asking 
that  she  wouldn't  give  permission  fqr  his  staying  over 
night.  She'd  think  it  was  the  entering  wedge.  I  got  my 
pay  envelope  as  I  went  out  past  the  desk.  I  carried  home 
a  pint  of  good  milk  and  a  delicatessen  meal  in  little  paste- 
board cartons.  Of  course,  I  should  be  taking  a  risk  to 
go  out  and  leave  him  alone  in  the  room,  but  the  appoint- 
ment was  so  late  that  I  thought  he  would  be  certain  to 
sleep — or  I  might  speak  to  Onna  about  him. 

We  had  quite  a  joyful  feast,  making  a  funny  game  of 
whispering  and  stepping  very  softly,  and  at  half-past  seven 
I  threw  myself  on  the  bed  beside  him  and  lay  there  till  he 
was  fast  asleep.  I  dropped  off  myself,  and  wakened  with 
a  start  to  hear  the  clock  on  the  landing  strike  eleven ! 

I  jumped  up  and  grabbed  my  hat  and  notebook.  Sup- 
pose poor  Rosalie  got  out  there  and  waited  for  me  ?  Sup- 


THE  CHANCE  I  GOT  207 

pose  I  didn't  arrive  till  after  the  meeting  was  over  ?  I 
never  gave  a  thought  to  telling  Orma  that  Boy  was  in  my 
room — I  just  ran  down  the  steps  and  hurried  ont  to  catch 
the  first  Chandler  street  car  I  could.  At  that  hour  I  had 
the  street  car  all  to  myself.  It  was  a  longer  ride  than  I 
had  expected,  but  finally  the  conductor  called  me  for  Mill- 
ward  street.  Was  I  too  late  ?  Xo — as  I  climbed  down 
from  the  car  I  saw  a  figure  waiting  in  the  shadow  of  the 
eucalyptus.  I  went  toward  the  curb;  the  car  hummed  on 
without  me.  This  figure  detached  itself  from  the  dark- 
ness and  came  forward.  It  was  Mr.  Stokes. 

I'm  not  suspicious.  I  looked  right  past  him  for  Miss 
Bailey. 

"Where's  Rosalie?"  I  asked,  jealously.  "What  made 
you  stay  over  ?  She  and  I  could  look  after  it.  What  was 
the  use  of  my  coming  away  out  here  if  you  were  going  to 
do  the  work  ?" 

"You're  late,"  he  grunted.  "I'd  begun  to  think  you 
weren't  coming  at  all.  Here.  This  w 

He  took  hold  of  my  arm  and  steered  me  down  the  side 
street,  where  a  row  of  pepper  trees  dropped  their  green 
laces  so  low  that  an  occasional  branch  touched  vou  as  vou 

• 

walked  under.  It  didn't  look  the  kind  of  place  where 
you'd  find  a  saloon.  I  pulled  back,  demanding: 

"Is  Rosalie  down  ther« 

"Don't  ask  so  many  questions,"  lunging  to  take  my  arm 
again.  I  sidled  away. 

"Am  I  to  help  you  report  the  meeting  ?  I  wouldn't  have 
come  if  you'd  told  me  that." 

I  looked  about,  warily  holding  my  distance  from  Mr. 
Stokes.  We  were  midway  of  a  long,  dark  block — as  far 
back  as  forward — I'd  better  keep  on  with  him. 

"You  needn't  get  sassy,  either.  I  want  to  talk  to  you, 
Sister.  You  don't  give  me  any  chance  in  the  office.'' 

"Talk,  then,"  I  said,  getting  ahead  as  fast  as  I  could — 
almost  running.  I  meant  to  dodge  right  down  the  other 
street  at  the  next  corner,  whatever  he  might  think  of  me. 


208  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

"Don't,  be  in  such  a  darned  hurry."  He  lumbered  along 
beside  me.  "You  might  as  well  be  nice — now  you're  out 
here.  Hold  on ;  it  ain't  going  to  hurt  you  to  love  me  a  lit- 
tle. You'd  get  along  better  in  the  office  if  you  did." 

I'd  kept  as  much  of  the  sidewalk  between  us  as  I  could. 
But  he  was  crowding  toward  my  side  so  that  it  was  either 
to  go  off  in  the  weeds  or  have  him  take  my  arm  again. 
Well,  we  were  at  the  corner.  I  faced  round  on  him. 

"Love  you !"  I  spluttered.  "I  wouldn't  love  you  if  you 
were  the  last  man  in  the  world!  You  had  no  business 

"Shucks !"  he  broke  in,  grabbing  for  me.  "We  needn't 
split  hairs  over  a  word.  You  know  why  I  gave  you  a  place. 
You  know  I  think  a  lot  of  you.  I  do.  I'd  care  more  for 
you  than  for  any  of  them.  You  can't  stay  in  the  same  of- 
fice with  me  and  keep  standing  me  off." 

"Stay  in  the  same  office  with  you !"  I  choked.  "Do  you 
think  I'll  ever  put  my  foot  in  the  'Clarion'  office  again 
after  this  ?  You  can  tell  them  so — and  why !" 

I  dodged  past  him  and  ran — as  I  never  knew  I  could 
run.  I  heard  him  call  after  me,  and  flew  the  faster.  I 
thought  I  rounded  the  next  corner  toward  Chandler  street 
and  the  car  line,  but  the  streets  were  cut  differently  here ; 
no  car  line  was  in  sight.  I  had  lost  my  hat ;  my  hair  was 
down.  I  was  glad  that  all  about  me  was  dim  and  silent. 
I  brought  up  suddenly  with  the  knowledge  that  it  must  be 
well  past  midnight  and  I  didn't  know  where  I  was. 

I  tried  to  calm  myself  and  take  my  bearings.  Most  of 
the  hairpins  were  gone  from  my  hair ;  I  finally  braided  it 
in  a  single  plait  down  my  back,  trying  all  the  time  to  get 
back  to  Chandler  street.  I  was  thoroughly  lost.  Well, 
anyhow,  I  didn't  look  fit  to  get  on  a  street  car ;  I  just  took 
the  general  direction  by  the  tower  of  the  Cronin  Building 
and  started  in  to  walk  it.  The  steady  movement  did  me 
good.  By  the  time  I  got  in  the  streets  I  knew  I  was  quite 
steadied  down.  I  pretty  nearly  went  to  pieces  again 
though  when  I  reached  the  Poinsettia  door,  felt  for  my 


THE  CHANCE  I  GOT  209 

latch-key  and  found  it  wasn't  there !  I'd  lost  it.  Here  it 
was,  after  two  o'clock;  I  was  locked  out,  Boy  up  in  my 
room,  and  no  one  knew  of  his  being  there.  I  walked  along 
the  two  sides  of  the  house,  looking  up  at  its  windows ;  all 
black,  except  where  they  caught  the  reflection  from  the 
street  lamps.  If  I  could  have  reached  Mrs.  Tipton — but 
her  window  was  above  the  tunnel;  no  way  to  get  at  it. 
Grotesquely  enough,  the  only  windows  I  could  easily 
reach  would  be  those  of  Mrs.  Thrasher  and  Mrs.  or  Miss 
Tutt.  I  could  fling  a  handful  of  gravel  up  to  any  of 
these,  and  I  giggled  a  little  hysterically  at  the  thought. 
If  I  rang  the  bell  to  get  hold  of  Orma,  the  house  would 
be  roused  and  everybody  would  have  to  know  the  story 
to-morrow.  I  stole  down  the  tunnel  to  see  if,  by  any 
blessed  chance,  Mr.  Dale  should  have  been  working  late. 
No — his  little  dwelling  was  as  black  and  still  as  the  other, 
the  curtains  drawn  on  his  sleeping  porch.  I  must  have 
prowled  around  there  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  trying  to 
find  some  way  to  climb  up  to  the  kitchen  roof — once  there, 
I  could  easily  get  in  at  the  window.  I  am  light  and  active 
for  a  woman ;  but  the  thing  was  hopeless. 

Twice  I  went  and  stood  under  the  sleeping  porch  and 
spoke  Mr.  Dale's  name  in  a  guarded  tone,  but  it  didn't 
rouse  him.  Finally,  as  I  was  trying  to  clamber  up  on  the 
garbage  can  that  stood  by  the  kitchen  steps,  I  felt  sure  I 
heard  Boyce  in  the  room  above  cry  out.  I  must  get  in 
there.  Of  course,  he  often  did  call  out  in  his  sleep — 
and  then  make  no  further  disturbance,  but  if  he  once 
waked  up  and  found  himself  alone,  he'd  raise  the  house — 
and  then  I  should  have  to  leave  the  Poinsettia  in  disgrace. 

Half  laughing,  I  ran  back  once  more  to  the  bungalow's 
sleeping  porch,  called  Mr.  Dale's  name — sharply  this  time 
— with  no  result.  Then  I  put  a  hasty  hand  through  the 
curtain,  shaking  them  a  little,  fumbled  forward,  and  be- 
fore I  knew  it,  touched  his  face. 

"Oh!"  I  spoke  louder  than  I  had  done  yet.  "Mr. 
Dale!" 


210  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

"Yes.  What?  Who  is  it?"  His  voice  answered 
promptly. 

"It's  Mrs.  Baird "  I  got  no  further ;  his  feet  struck 

the  floor,  as  he  interrupted : 

"Yes.    Wait  a  minute.    I'll  open  the  door  for  you." 

"I — I'm  locked  out,"  I  called  through  the  curtains.  "I 
forgot  my  key.  Boy's  in  my  room.  I  must  get  in  to  him. 
I  thought  ntaybe  you  could  help  me — the  window." 

"Oh — certainly."  Mr.  Dale's  first  replies  had  been  in 
that  odd  tone  one  gets  from  a  person  just  roused  from 
deep  sleep.  Now  he  spoke  like  his  normal  self.  "I'll  get 
something  on  and  be  with  you  in  a  minute,"  he  said. 

I  went  back  to  my  hopeful  garbage  can,  which  was  as 
tall  as  a  barrel,  yet  with  an  inhospitable,  peaked  top.  Al- 
most immediately  he  joined  me  there,  sized  up  the  situa- 
tion, and  went  to  his  house  for  a  step-ladder.  The  ad- 
venture seemed  to  amuse  him. 

"I  shouldn't  need  it  for  myself,"  he  said,  as  he  came 
back  with  the  easy  way,  "but  I  pay  you  the  compliment  of 
supposing  that  this  is  out  of  the  common  for  you.  Up  you 
go — no,  I'll  have  to  get  there  first  and  reach  down  for 
you." 

We  whispered  and  laughed  like  truant  children.  He 
went  up  the  ladder,  caught  the  roof  edge  and  swung  him- 
self to  it  easily,  then  lay  on  its  flat  surface  and  reached 
down  for  me. 

"Come  on,"  he  urged.  "Don't  be  afraid.  I  can  lift 
your  weight.  I  used  to  be  rather  good  at  this  sort  of 
thing." 

"I  don't  know  what  I  stiould  Have  done  without  you,"  I 
whispered  energetically,  as  he  got  me  across  the  flat  roof 
to  my  window  sill,  and  pulled  the  sash  open  for  me. 
"Thank  you  a  thousand  times." 

"You're  a  thousand  times  welcome."  Mr.  Dale  slid 
back  toward  the  roof  edge  and  the  ladder,  and  I  went  in 
to  Boy. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A    BBEACH 

1WAS  so  worn  out,  and  burnt  out  with  the  rage  I'd 
been  in  and  the  terror,  that  I  just  pulled  off  a  few  of 
my  clothes  and  crawled  in  beside  Boy  and  slept  like  a 
stoker.  I'd  lost  my  job;  I  had  a  horrid  sinking  feeling 
that  I  wasn't  a  very  good  person  to  get  and  hold  a  job — 
but  to-morrow  was  another  day — it  would  have  to  take  care 
of  itself — at  the  minute  my  mere  physical  exhaustion 
brought  me  peace. 

The  first  light  waked  me,  showed  me  my  dusty  shoes  in 
the  middle  of  the  floor,  and  brought  back  the  whole  thing. 
It  was  Sunday  morning.  Mrs.  Eccles  was  spending  the 
day  with  her  daughter  at  Corinth.  Boy  and  I  were  due 
out  at  Delia's  for  that  two  o'clock  Sunday  dinner.  It 
would  be  the  first  time  I'd  seen  her  since  she  walked  away 
beside  young  Pendleton,  and  now  I  had  to  tell  her  of  my 
leaving  the  "Clarion" — and  why.  I  lay  there  quite  a 
while ;  the  more  I  thought  about  it,  the  more  I  determined 
to  tell  her  and  Harvey  a?  little  as  I  possibly  could.  Let 
them  think  what  they  pleased.  The  only  thing  that  could 
hurt  me  was  self-distrust. 

I  went  back  over  the  months  since  I'd  Jeft  my  husband. 
It  was  nearly  a  year  now.  In  a  few  weeks  my  decree  of 
divorce  would  be  made  final.  A  little  more  than  three 
months  of  the  time  had  gone  to  my  schooling  at  the  busi- 
ness college.  I  had  done  well  there.  My  work  since  with 
Mr.  Dale  had  kept  up  my  practice.  I  wondered  if  I  dared 
try  San  Francisco.  Maybe  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for 
me  to  get  away  from  San  Vicente.  The  idea  may  have 
been  only  cowardice— a  disposition  to  turn  my  back  on 

"     211 


212  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

the  problem  that  was  too  hard  for  me — but  it  certainly 
seemed  very  attractive.  Then  Boy  woke  up  and  there  was 
no  more  thinking  possible. 

The  worst  I  had  expected  was  that  Delia  would  look 
terribly  knowing  when  we  met,  and  that  as  soon  as  she  got 
me  alone,  I'd  be  in  for  another  lecture.  But  you  know 
how  it  is  that  sometimes  you  go  to  a  friend's  house  and  the 
atmosphere  is  different — all  queer — you  feel  as  though 
something  had  happened  there  since  you  last  saw  the 
folks  that  had  made  a  change,  and  you  don't  know  what  it 
is,  and  keep  trying  to  find  out  without  asking.  It  was 
that  way  at  Delia's  from  the  minute  she  met  me  in  the 
hall,  and  hardly  waited  to  kiss  me  before  she  called  in  to 
the  living-room: 

"Hod — they've  come." 

Harvey  came  right  out,  and  Boy  ran  to  him  to  show  his 
new  socks  with  blue  plaid  at  their  tops.  It  was  kind  of 
funny  to  see  Harvey  and  Delia  stand  there  side  by  side 
like  people  in  a  picture,  or  the  President  and  his  lady  hold- 
ing a  reception.  It  struck  me  that  I  had  never  seen  them 
stand  just  that  way,  for  this  time  it  wasn't  Delia  who 
reached  out  and  took  hold  of  her  husband  ;  Harvey  put  his 
hand  on  her  shoulder  to  call  her  attention  as  he  asked : 

"Are  those  the  ones  you  got  for  Buster,  Deedie?" 

It  turned  out  that  they  were  the  ones.  Delia  pretty 
nearly  dressed  Boy  these  days;  she  bent  down  now  to 
straighten  up  the  socks  of  her  choosing  and  purchasing, 
and  fluff  out  the  tie  that  matched  them,  demanding: 

"Don't  they  go  perfectly  together  ?  I  had  the  greatest 
time  getting  just  that  shade  of  Holland  blue,  but  I  would 
have  it  because  it  washes  so  well." 

We  higgle-haggled  through  the  dinner ;  the  conversation 
bumped  along  like  a  wagon  on  a  corduroy  road.  There 
seemed  to  be  nothing  but  contention  in  the  air.  Every- 
thing that  came  up  was  disagreed  about.  It  didn't  seem 
to  me  that  I  was  the  one  who  started  it;  I  had  made  up 


A  BREACH  213 

mj  mind  that  since  the  deluge  was  to  arrive  to-morrow 
anyhow,  I  would  try  to  be  cheerful  to-day  and  not  think 
about  it ;  but  whether  we  spoke  of  the  weather  or  the  pos- 
sibility of  Judge  Hoard  running  for  Congress,  I  found 
myself  on  one  side,  with  Harvey  and  Dele  solid  on  the 
other.  I  was  used  to  Harvey's  almost  abject  laudation  of 
the  judge — he  had  cases  coming  up  before  him.  And  what 
was  it  to  me  that  Delia  kept  speaking  of  Miss  Chandler  as 
"Gene" — remarking  that  they  hadn't  been  thrown  together 
much  of  late,  but  it  was  an  old  friendship.  Yet  I  did  find 
it  hard  to  hold  my  tongue  when,  failing  to  get  a  rise  out 
of  me,  she  gave  me  a  disparaging  side  glance  and  ob- 
served, "Of  course,  Gene  stands  where  she  can  afford  to 
be — well — select." 

Boy  was  across  the  table  from  me;  he  kept  feeding 
Fairy,  and  Dele  wouldn't  let  me  stop  him,  though  the  dog's 
noise  pretty  nearly  broke  up  any  sort  of  conversation,  and 
she  complained  of  it  herself.  They  seemed  to  have  their 
own  ideas  about  my  son,  so  I  let  his  eating  alone,  though  a 
good  deal  of  it  went  squarely  against  my  rules.  I  could 
see  what  Mrs.  Eccles  meant  by  saying  it  wasn't  good  for 
him  to  be  there  so  much.  Well — never  mind — maybe  we 
wouldn't  stay  in  San  Vicente  much  longer.  They  cer- 
tainly had  done  a  great  deal  for  the  child. 

When  we  got  up  from  the  table  Harvey  proposed  to  take 
Boy  out  with  him  in  the  car. 

"We'll  only  be  gone  about  half  an  hour,  Deedie,"  he 
said;  "just  to  the  Heights  and  back;  you  girls  can  have 
your  talk,  and  then  come  for  a  ride  with  us  afterward  if 
you  want  to." 

"You'd  better  make  it  an  hour."  Delia  was  very  busi- 
ness-like. "Fornia  and  I  will  want  that  much  time  any- 
how." 

I  stared  in  surprise  while  Harvey  got  his  dust  coat  and 
cap,  and  he  and  Boy  clattered  away,  the  dog  at  their  heels, 
to  the  garage  for  the  machine.  He  and  Delia  seemed  to 


THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

have  it  all  arranged  between  them;  how  did  they 
know  that  there  was  anything  special  I  wanted  to  say  to 
her? 

"Shall  we  sit  in  the  library  ?"  Delia  asked.  "Or  would 
you  rather  go  up  to  nay  room  ?  We'd  be  more  alone  up 
there." 

"I  guess  we'd  better  sit  here,  hadn't  we?"  I  led  the 
way  into  the  room  they  called  the  library.  "It  won't  take 
me  long  to  tell  you  the  news." 

"News  ?"    Delia  looked  startled. 

"Yes.  I've  left  the  'Clarion.'  Now,  don't  ask  me  why. 
It  wouldn't  do  a  bit  of  good  to  tell  you,  because  I'm  never 
going  back  there." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

I  had  got  into  a  Morris  chair  and  sat  staring  straight 
at  the  hearth,  where  Wo  Par's  laid  fire  waited  for  the 
match  anybody  might  care  to  touch  to  it  on  a  foggy  day 
or  for  a  chilly  evening,  July  though  it  was. 

"I  haven't  made  up  my  mind."  I  didn't  glance  at 
Delia,  but  I  knew  just  how  she  sat,  looking  sort  of  plump 
and  propped-up,  in  her  own  particular  rocker  across  from 
me.  The  air  between  us  was  full  of  accusation  and  re- 
proof. 

"What  do  you  want  to  do  ?"  she  asked,  and  I  was  re- 
lieved that  she  did  not  instantly  try  to  find  out  the  reason 
for  my  leaving  the  "Clarion"  so  suddenly. 

"I  don't  quite  know,"  I  hesitated.  "I  sort  of  think  I'd 
like  to  go  to  San  Francisco — if  I  could  get  work  there." 

"You  oughtn't  to  take  Jack — to  the  city."  Delia  spoke 
very  positively. 

"Perhaps  not.  It's  the  thing  that  troubles  me  right 
now." 

"We'd  keep  him.  We  want  to — Poncie,  that's  what  I 
was  going  to  talk  to  you  about  to-day." 

I  looked  at  her  in  surprise;  her  tone  was  so  queer. 
There  she  sat — on  the  edge  of  her  chair,  sure  enough — 


A  BREACH  215 

staring  at  me  with  very  round  eyes  and  a  kind  of  fas- 
cinated curiosity,  as  if  I  had  been  some  strange  animal 
she  had  never  seen  before.  It  came  over  me  all  at  once 
that  what  she  and  Harvey  were  fixing  for  had  nothing  to 
do  with  my  personal  plans,  but  concerned  something  they 
were  arranging  themselves. 

"You  wanted  to  talk  to  me  ?"  I  echoed. 

"Yes.  When  you  told  me  that  awful  thing  about  Al 
Pendleton — I  went  straight  to  Hod  with  it." 

"You  did  ?"  (But,  of  course,  I  might  have  known  she 
would.)  "Please  remember  that  I  didn't  tell  you  any- 
thing about  that  matter,  Delia.  You  jumped  to  your  own 
conclusions.  You  may  be  entirely  wrong.  I'm  not  say- 
ing anything." 

"You  don't  have  to.  I  know  all  about  it,  and "  she 

gulped — "and  the  other,  too." 

"What  other  ?" 

"Hod." 

"What!"  I  half  started  up  from  my  chair.  Delia 
reached  to  pull  me  back. 

"Yes,  Hod."  She  nodded  palely.  "He  was  so  mad 
about  Pendleton  that  I  knew  there  was  something  wrong, 
and  I  taxed  him  with  it." 

"You "  I  broke  in,  but  she  ran  right  over  me,  ex- 
cited, fluent. 

"He  didn't  try  to  deceive  me — but  there  wouldn't  have 
been  any  use  if  he  had.  As  soon  as  I  got  to  thinking  about 
it,  I  saw  the  whole  thing.  I've  forgiven  him — and  I  for- 
give you,  Foncie.  I'm  willing  to  take  the  little  boy,  just 
the  same." 

"You  forgive — you're  willing!  Delia,  there's  been 
nothing  to  forgive.  You  talk  as  though " 

"We  needn't  go  into  it."  Delia  shut  her  lips  hard  to- 
gether and  shook  her  head.  "I  guess  Hoddy  gave  me  the 
facts  before  he  was  done  with  it.  He  was  on  his  knees  at 
the  last,  and  pretty  near  crying.  I'm  not  mad  at  you. 


216  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

I'm  not  the  least  bit  jealous.  I'm  sorry  for  you — but,  of 
course,  after  this  we  can't " 

I  jumped  out  of  Delia's  Morris  chair  as  though  it  had 
been  hot. 

"I'll  get  my  things  and  stop  Harvey  before  he  gets 
away." 

Delia  hung  on  to  me. 

"What  about  our  offer  to  take  the  child  ?" 

I  stared  at  her  silently. 

"Hod  wants  to  adopt  him — keep  him  and  educate  him. 
I'm  willing." 

"Dele,  what  do  you  take  me  for  ?  Did  you  think  I'd 
let  you — or  anybody — have  my  child  ?" 

"You're  foolish  if  you  don't.  You  could  go  up  to  San 
Francisco  and  get  a  place  in  peace  then.  It  would  be 
better  for  you  and  better  for  him.  It  seems  to  me  a  mother 
should  put  her  child's  interests  first." 

I  had  laid  my  things  off  on  Delia's  bed.  As  I  ran  up 
the  stairs,  she  following,  talking,  panting,  holding  out  her 
hands  in  my  direction  but  not  quite  touching  me,  as  though 
she  thought  I  might  burn  or  blow  up  if  she  laid 
a  finger  on  me,  we  heard  the  car  roll  out  of  the  garage. 
I  grabbed  up  my  hat,  stuck  it  on  and  began  jabbing  the 
pins  through. 

"You've  got  it  on  crooked!"  Delia  cried,  as  I  dived  at 
my  scarf  and  Boy's  rolled-up  pajamas.  "Come  back  here 
and  see  it  in  the  glass.  It's  right  over  your  ear.  You 
look  awful."  She  came  on,  remonstrating  all  the  way 
down  the  stairs. 

"I  don't  care  how  I  look.  Let  me  alone !"  pulling  away 
from  her. 

"Oh,  you're  so  reckless,"  Delia  whimpered — and  neither 
of  us  had  sense  of  humour  enough  left  to  laugh.  "A  reck- 
less, headstrong  girl  like  you — crazy  about  the  men — has 
no  business  dragging  a  poor  little  child  around  in  the  sort 
of  things  that  she'll  get  mixed  up  with." 


A  BREACH  217 

"Hush !"  I  turned  on  her  in  the  front  door.  She  fal- 
tered back  from  me  a  little,  muttering: 

"Harvey  says " 

"Don't  you  tell  me  what  Harvey  said,"  I  interrupted, 
fiercely.  "If  he's  got  anything  to  say — he'd  better  say  it 
to  me." 

The  machine  was  at  the  curb  and  waiting  for  us.  Far 
down  the  beautiful,  broad,  Sunday-quiet  street  people  were 
passing.  The  nurse  was  wheeling  the  Pendleton  baby  in 
at  the  place  next  door.  Harvey,  looking  a  good  deal  sur- 
prised, got  down  and  opened  the  door  of  the  tonneau.  He 
must  have  thought  we  had  got  through  with  our  talk  very 
quickly.  I  almost  ran  down  the  walk. 

"Come,  Boyce,"  I  called,  as  soon  as  I  got  within  hailing 
distance.  "You're  going  with  me." 

Harvey  seemed  to  notice  then,  for  the  first  time,  that 
Delia  hadn't  a  hat  on.  I  went  up  close  to  the  car  and 
reached  for  Boyce. 

"No,"  said  my  hopeful,  "I'm  a-gonna  ride  on  front  seat. 
You  gurruls  can  get  in  back." 

"Yes,  yes,"  Harvey  seconded  him  hurriedly.  "Get  in — 
get  in,  won't  you?  We've  got  plenty  of  time  for  a  nice 
ride." 

"Boy — come  to  mother — this  minute."  I  paid  no  at- 
tention to  Harvey  or  Delia.  But  Boy  travelled  swiftly, 
sitting  as  he  was,  to  the  further  end  of  the  seat,  beyond  the 
stretch  of  my  fingers.  He  got  behind  the  steering  wheel 
and  defied  me. 

"Now,  Calla,  you  don't  want  to "     Harvey's  voice 

suddenly  collapsed  in  a  husky  little  break  as  I  turned  on 
him,  demanding: 

"Will  you  get  out  of  my  way  and  let  me  around  so  I 
can  lift  Boyce  out  ?" 

As  he  stood  hampering  me,  I  saw  his  glance  go  past  to 
Delia,  and  she  answered  as  though  he  had  spoken : 

"I  don't  see  what  I  said,  but  Foncie's  furious.     That's 


218  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

the  way;  people  do  the  most  awful  things,  and  then  if  a 
word's  said,  they  fly  into  a  rage." 

"Never  mind,  Delia,"  I  spoke  over  my  shoulder;  "this 
is  the  last  time  you'll  be  troubled  with  saying — or  not  say- 
ing— words  to  me.  Harvey — lift  Boyce  out." 

"You'll  have  to  do  it  yourself  if  it's  going  to  be  done," 
Harvey  mumbled,  looking  off  down  street.  "You're  acting 
against  the  child's  best  interests.  I  won't  raise  a  finger. 
If  you  think  well  to  quarrel  with  an  old  friend — a  friend 
of  your  parents — and " 

I  stared  at  him  where  he  stood,  hostile,  thoroughly 
scared,  in  his  eyes  the  terror  of  wtat  I  might  have  said  or 
would  say  against  him. 

"Do  you  have  the  face  to  hint  that  it  isn't  to  my  child's 
best  interests  to  be  with  me  ?"  I  rounded  on  him.  "That 
certainly  would  be  funny — from  you !" 

"Foncie — don't  make  a  scene  out  here  on  the  street," 
Delia  broke  in. 

"I'm  not!"  I  cried.  "It's  you  people.  Harvey,  what 
have  you  been  saying  to  Delia  about  me  2" 

"Now,  Eoneie,"  Delia  rushed  in  again.  "Hod  didn't 
blame  you  in  telling  me  about  it.  He  took  all  the  blame 
himself.  He  said  that  he,  being  a  man  and  older,  ought 
to've  warned  you.  He  wouldn't  admit  that  you  were  one 
of  these  kind  of  women  that  go  around  trying  to  break 
up  families.  He  stuck  to  it  that  it  was  just  because 
you " 

"Delia — be  still,"  I  said.  "I  asked  Harvey  a  question 
— and  he  hasn't  answered  it." 

"Calla !"  Harvey's  voice  was  husky,  but  he  seemed  to 

see  he  must  speak  up  before  Delia.  "I — you "  He 

cleared  his  throat  and  launched  out  desperately.  "What's 
the  use  of  denying  it?  You  know  well  enough  that  you 
were  at  my  office  all  the  time,  and  came  out  here  contin- 
ually— a  man  with  his  wife  away — you  know  what  that 
means  ?" 


A  BREACH  219 

The  lawyer  impudence  of  him  paralysed  me  for  the  mo- 
ment— kept  me  speechless. 

"tlnh-hunh,"  said  Delia.  The  sound  seemed  to  cheer 
Harvey  on.  He  finished  with  considerable  dignity. 

"I  never  intended  to  tell  Dele  anything  about  it;  I 
wouldn't  have,  on  your  account,  if  she  hadn't  come  to  me 
with  these  stories  of  yours — on — a  lot  of  men." 

He  had  been  looking  at  the  ground,  scuffling  with  his 
foot.  He  raised  his  eyes  now,  full  of  ugly  anger.  "When 
it  gets  down  to  Al  Pendleton — yes — I'm  ready  to  say  that 
the  child  would  be  a  lot  better  off  with  us — with  any  re- 
spectable married  couple." 

"A  respectable  married  couple !"  I  looked  from  one  to 
the  other  of  them.  I  think  I  never  was  so  furious  in  my 
life.  At  first  it  choked  me;  then,  when  the  words  began 
to  come,  I  couldn't  think  of  anything  bad  enough  to  say, 
and  stuttered  it  over  again,  "A  respectable  married  couple ! 
How  dare  you,  Harvey  Watkins — a  dirty  fellow  like  you 
— and  such  a  fool  as  Delia — hasn't  sense  enough  to  know 
when  an  honest  woman  is  being  lied  about !  I  don't  care 
if  he  is  your  husband,  Dele — I  don't  care  if  he  is  your 
husband !  You  ought  to  have  known  better  than  to  believe 
that  silly  mess  of  lies — about  me !" 

Delia  gaped  at  me  with  eyes  like  saucers.  Then  her  be- 
wildered gaze  fastened  itself  on  the  pasty  pallor  of  Har- 
vey's face. 

"TJh — uh "  she  began,  stumblingly.  "We've  tried 

to  be  good  to  you  and  the  child " 

I  laughed  loud  like  a  crazy  thing. 

"Well,  for  pity's  sake,  don't  try  any  more  then,"  I  said. 
"This  ends  it.  This  wipes  out  every  kindness,  every  favor. 
Let  you  have  Boyce  ?"  My  face  burned ;  my  eyes  felt  hot 
in  my  head.  I  looked  from  one  of  them  to  the  other. 
"He'd  better  starve  than  be  with  such  people." 

I  shoved  Harvey  aside — since  I  couldn't  knock  him 
down — climbed  into  the  auto  and  seized  Boy.  So  far  he 


220  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

had  sat  looking  doubtfully  at  us  all;  I  had  been  afraid 
he  would  try  to  take  a  hand — or  cry.  But  no,  my  fury 
seemed  to  cow  him,  for  he  came  silently,  and  only  spoke 
when  I  had  set  him  on  his  two  feet  on  the  sidewalk. 

"Gramma's  gone  away,"  was  what  he  said,  and  his  voice 
wabbled.  Mrs.  Eccles  wouldn't  be  back  till  five  o'clock. 

"Never  mind,"  I  led  him  away,  Delia  and  Harvey  be- 
side the  machine  staring  after  us;  "we'll  go  down  to  the 
movies." 

Boyce  was  delighted.  He  forgot  the  strange  scene,  as 
children  do,  or  stowed  it  away  in  that  queer  little  mind  of 
his,  to  bring  out  and  ask  questions  about  at  some  leisure 
moment  when  there  wasn't  any  motion  picture  show  on 
hand. 

We  walked  down  to  the  foot  of  the  hill,  where,  beside 
the  Burmeister  Grocery,  there  was  a  little  photo  theatre. 
I  paid  my  dime  and  sat  in  the  darkened  place  while  things 
were  flashed  on  the  screen  and  a  mechanical  piano  made  a 
noise  that  was  intended  for  music;  but  I  neither  saw  nor 
heard  anything  that  was  about  me.  When  Boy  bounced 
and  chortled  in  his  seat  over  something  that  pleased  him 
extra  well,  I  squeezed  his  hand  or  answered  his  whispered 
question,  but  the  picture  that  raced  before  my  mind,  shut- 
ting out  everything  else,  was  Harvey  on  his  knees,  his  head 
in  Dele's  lap,  confessing  tearfully  that  I  had  tried  to  lead 
him  astray! 

When  the  show  was  over  it  was  time  to  take  Boy  up  to 
Mrs.  Eccles's.  He  ran  right  to  her.  I  suppose  I  hadn't 
been  a  very  responsive  companion.  He  wanted  somebody 
that  he  could  tell  about  the  pictures.  While  he  was  on  her 
lap,  eagerly  describing  them,  pulling  her  face  around  to 
get  her  attention,  I  told  her  quietly,  and  in  the  fewest  pos- 
sible words,  that  he  was  not  to  go  to  the  Watkins's  any 
more — under  any  circumstances.  I  left  it  at  that.  Mrs. 
Eccles  was  glad  enough  to  accept  the  order,  without  asking 
any  questions. 


A  BREACH  221 

I  kissed  Boy  good-bye  and  walked  back  to  the  head  of 
the  hill.  While  I  was  waiting  for  the  car  in  to  San  Vi- 
cente, who  should  get  off  the  outbound  but  Delia's  warm 
personal  friend,  "Gene  Chandler,"  looking  indeed  select, 
and  extremely  elegant,  in  an  outfit  I  had  never  before  seen. 

"Why,  Callie,  what's  the  matter?"  was  her  first  word. 

It  touched  me.  Mrs.  Eccles  hadn't  seen  anything  wrong, 
but  as  I  shook  my  head  and  said,  "Nothing,"  Miss  Chand- 
ler caught  my  elbow,  turned  me  around,  and  started  off 
with: 

"Don't  tell  me  that — something's  happened.  You  look 
wretched.  Let's  go  over  to  the  tea-room.  A  good  hot  cup 
of  tea  will  help  you,  maybe.  If  there's  anything  I  can 
do — just  tell  me." 

The  Country  Club  has  a  big  shingle-and-boulder  build- 
ing out  at  Las  Reudas  overlooking  the  golf  links  and  the 
valley  with  the  town  in  it.  I  had  never  been  inside  before, 
but  Miss  Chandler  seemed  to  be  well  known  there.  She 
was  treated  with  marked  deference.  As  it  was  Sunday 
afternoon,  the  place  was  full ;  but  a  word  from  her  to  one 
of  the  waiters  got  for  us  a  private  nook — a  little  table  out 
on  a  balcony,  all  to  ourselves. 

"Now,"  said  Miss  Chandler,  when  we  sat  at  last  with 
the  steaming  pot  of  tea,  the  rack  of  toast  and  the  tiny 
saucers  of  jam  before  us,  "tell  me  all  about  it  and  you'll 
feel  better." 

I  couldn't  hold  away  from  her  true  kindness.  I  did  tell 
her  all  about  it.  She  listened  and  nodded,  and  the  names 
she  called  Harvey  were  a  great  comfort  to  me.  The  way 
she  helped  me  most,  however,  was  by  saying,  finally: 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  laugh  ?  Callie — if  it  didn't  make 
you  so  mad,  you'd  see  that  it's  one  of  the  funniest  things 
that  ever  happened.  Here  you  are,  going  against  reason 
and  common  sense  to  keep  the  very  last  limit  of  the  letter 
of  the  law — and  an  old  dub  like  that,  who  did  his  best  to 
bring  you  to  his  little  way  of  thinking,  can  get  scared  for 


222  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

fear  you'd  tell  on  him,  and  run  to  his  old  dub  wife  and 
sick  her  on  you — and  bring  in  Al  Pendleton,  that  you 
snubbed  unmercifully — it  certainly  is  one  great  big  joke." 

"Maybe  I'll  see  the  fun  in  it  some  time,"  I  said.  "Just 
now  you're  right;  I'm  too  mad.  It  comes  on  top  of  my 
losing  my  place." 

"On  the  'Clarion'  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Anything  else  in  sight  ?" 

"No."  I  hated  to  say  that  to  her,  but  it  was  the  truth. 
"I'd  like  to  go  to  San  Francisco  if  I  could,  and  try  for  a 
position  there." 

My  cup  of  tea  and  the  pleasant  surroundings,  with  an 
attentive  waiter  and  the  feeling  that  I  was  somebody,  had 
done  me  good.  I  felt  grateful  to  Miss  Chandler.  She 
leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  studied  me  with  an  odd  ex- 
pression for  some  time  before  she  spoke  again. 

"I'm  glad  I  chanced  to  be  out  here  to-day,"  she  said, 
softly.  "I've  got  a  duty  call  to  make  on  an  old  friend  of 
mother's  that's  in  Las  Reudas  from  the  East.  Such  a 
bore — but  now  I'm  glad  it  happened." 

"So  am  I,"  I  echoed,  heartily. 

She  still  kept  sending  that  odd,  sidelong  glance  toward 
me  as  she  called  the  waiter,  paid  our  check  and  added  a 
liberal  tip ;  but  it  was  not  till  we  were  out  on  the  street 
and  about  to  part  that  she  spoke. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  now,  Calla  ?" 

"Get  home  as  quick  as  I  can,"  I  said,  wilfully  misun- 
derstanding her.  "I've  got  work  for  Mr.  Dale  to-night." 

"Dale !"  she  echoed,  with  light  scorn.  "Don't  you  know 
there's  nothing  there  for  you  ?" 

When  I  didn't  answer: 

"Callie,"  she  began  again,  with  a  funny  little  defiant 
air,  "I  don't  suppose  you'll  pay  any  attention  to  it — even 
down  and  out  as  you  are,  with  no  job,  and  all  your  good 
Pharisee  friends  lending  you  a  kick  instead  of  a  hand  up 


A  BREACH  223 

— but  I'm  going  to  say  it  once  more.  There  will  be  a 
motor  trip  to  the  Pendleton  camp  in  a  few  days.  They 
would  be  tickled  to  death  to  have  you.  I  always  wished 
you'd  go — once.  Seems  to  me  you  might — now.  Oh, 
well,"  she  threw  her  head  back  and  laughed  at  sight  of  my 
face,  "I  didn't  say  a  word,  did  I?  Good-bye." 

"Good-bye,"  I  answered,  and  watched  her  down  the 
block — she  was  the  most  graceful  thing — this  new  dress 
set  off  her  figure  to  perfection.  Then  I  turned,  rested,  re- 
freshed, toward  that  straight  road  which  was  mine  to 
travel. 


CHAPTER  XV 

CHLOKODYNE 

THE  first  thing  I  did  Monday  morning  was  to  ring  up 
the  "Clarion"  office  and  find  whether  Mr.  Stokes  had 
gone  to  San  Francisco.  If  he  was  out  of  the  way,  I  wanted 
to  get  my  things.  He  was.  When  I  went  up,  there  were 
two  reporters  in  the  main  room  clacking  away  at  type- 
writers, and  Rosalie,  inside  at  Mr.  Stokes's  desk.  She  mo- 
tioned for  me  to  come  in  and  shut  the  door,  crying, 
guardedly : 

"Lord,  but  it's  a  relief  to  see  you  here  all  right.  Sit 
down,  honey.  I  believe  if  you  hadn't  come  in  for  five 
minutes  more,  I'd  have  had  a  fit." 

She  surveyed  me  from  hat  to  shoes,  then  back  again; 
bent  and  pulled  open  the  bottom  drawer  of  the  desk,  and 
took  out — my  little  black  sailor.  For  a  moment  we  two 
women  looked  at  each  other  across  it ;  then  she  whispered : 

"Cal — you  don't  know  how  I  felt  when  I  found  that 
thing  out  there." 

"Were  you  out  there  ?"  I  cried. 

"Course  I  was.  I  got  on  to  what  that  fool  was  up  to 
and  followed  him.  When  I  found  your  hat — and  him  ly- 
ing to  me  every  jump — I  was  so  blind  mad — and  scared — 
that  I  couldn't  do  anything  but  blubber — like  I'm  doing 
now."  She  wiped  her  eyes.  "All  day  Sunday  I  wanted 
to  ring  up.  I'd  have  done  it  first  thing  this  morning,  but 
I  give  you  my  word  I  was  afraid  to.  I  never  knew  Bill  to 
tear  off  any  rough  stuff  before.  He  usually  just  takes  what 

comes  easy.  But  after  I  found  that  hat Cal,  are  you 

going  to  complain  to  the  management  ?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"You're  wise.  It  wouldn't  do  any  good.  They  know 

224 


CHLORODYNE  225 

what  he  is — about  women.  They  keep  him  here  because 
they  can  get  him  cheap  on  account  of  his  rep  and  his  habits 
— and  he  does  the  work  all  right.  A  scandal  wouldn't 
hurt  anyone  but  you — and  my  sister.  I  don't  see  how  she 
lives  with  him.  Of  course,  she's  got  his  children.  It's 
her  bread  and  butter,  and  theirs ;  but  I'd  divorce  him  or 
kill  him  if  I  was  tied  up  to  him.  I  knew  the  devil  was  to 
pay  when  I  found  he'd  stayed  over  on  the  sly.  You  see, 
you'd  held  out  against  him.  That's  what  made  you  so  at- 
tractive. Not  but  what  you're  pretty  enough  and  sweet 
enough — but  Bill  generally  sits  tight  and  lets  'em  fall  into 
his  lap.  This  is  kind  of  a  new  wrinkle  for  him.  I'm  glad 
you're  not  going  to  the  management  about  it." 

"Well,  I  told  him  I  was  leaving.  I'll  get  out  now  and 
hunt  another  job." 

"Oh,  say,  Cal,  I  hate  that !  I'll  miss  you  awfully.  I'm 
mortal  sorry  it  happened,  darn  his  picters !"  Rosalie  had 
the  air  of  a  person  who  keeps  a  cross  dog  and  is  apologis- 
ing for  its  having  tried  to  bite  someone.  "Believe  me,  I 
told  Bill  a  few  things  when  I  found  this  hat.  He  swore 
up  and  down  that  nothing  really  happened,  only  you  got 
mad  when  he  sort  of  made  a  little  love  to  you,  and  ran  off 
like  a  crazy  thing  before  he  could  explain  or  apologise. 
The  monumental  jackass!  And  me  ageing  a  hundred 
years  a  minute  all  day  yesterday  for  fear  you'd  go  to  the 
police — as  you've  got  a  perfect  right  to  do."  She  still 
looked  at  me  apprehensively. 

"I'm  not  going  to  anybody  about  it,"  I  repeated.  "I've 
enough  to  do  hunting  up  another  job.  You  don't  know  of 
anything  for  me,  do  you,  Rosie?" 

"I  wish  I  did,  Cal,"  kind  old  Rosalie  answered.  "It's 
the  dull  season.  I'm  afraid  you'll  have  a  hard  time  get- 
ting anything." 

She  was  digging  down  into  her  pocket  with  her  good 
hand,  the  little  helpless  member  swinging.  I  knew  what 
she  was  up  to. 


226  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

"Now,  Rosie,  you  can't  lend  me  money,"  I  said,  "and 
you  needn't  try.  Really — I  don't  need  it." 

"Honestly  ?  Cross  your  heart  ?  You  would  come  to  me 
if  you  had  to  have  it  ?  I  could  spare  you  fifteen  bones — as 
easy  as  not." 

Bless  her  gallant  heart !  The  shoes  she  had  on  were  all 
bulged  at  the  side  and  shabby;  and  Rosalie  had  cause  to 
be  vain  of  her  pretty,  small  feet. 

"Yes,  yes,"  I  assured  her.  hastily.  "But  I  don't  need 
it — and  I'm  not  going  to." 

She  eyed  me  wistfully  as  I  did  up  the  hat  along  with 
the  things  I  had  come  for,  and  to  the  last  kept  saying  that 
I  was  to  come  to  her  if  I  got  in  a  pinch.  I  left  my  note  of 
resignation  at  the  "Clarion"  office  and  went  up  to  the 
Phipps  Business  College.  They  also  reminded  me  that  it 
was  midsummer,  but  they  listed  my  name  and  promised 
to  throw  anything  my  way  that  they  could.  I  didn't 
chance  to  see  anything  of  Harvey  while  I  was  in  the 
building,  but  I  was  ready  for  him ;  I  was  still  so  mad  that 
if  I'd  met  him  that  morning,  he'd  have  got  a  piece  of  my 
mind. 

I  went  on  to  the  employment  agencies,  one  after  the 
other,  and  found  them,  as  I  had  a  year  before,  overrun 
with  the  signing  up  of  hop-pickers.  I  began  to  be  at- 
tracted by  the  idea  of  just  packing  up  some  rough  clothes 
and  taking  Boy  and  going  up  into  the  Hopfields  district 
to  pick.  It  was  only  a  few  hours'  run;  Corinth,  where 
Boy  used  to  go  with  Mrs.  Eccles,  was  right  in  the  middle 
of  it.  Mrs.  Eccles's  son-in-law  had  been  a  buyer  and 
shipper;  she  said  he  had  worked  in  pretty  nearly  every 
capacity  you  could  imagine  on  a  hop  ranch.  She  thought 
I  could  do  it.  Las  Palmas,  the  biggest  one  there — indeed, 
the  biggest  in  the  world — was  the  ranch  I  selected  in  my 
own  mind,  because  on  a  place  of  that  size  and  wealth  the 
arrangements  and  accommodations  would  be  sure  to  be  ex- 
ceptionally good.  I  definitely  decided  on  Las  Palmas  as  a 


CHLORODYNE  227 

last  resort.  It  would  at  least  make  a  break — get  us  out 
of  San  Vicente  for  a  while. 

There  was  work  for  Mr.  Dale  that  evening,  and  though 
I  hated  to  bring  the  question  up  because  I  thought  it  might 
look  like  asking  him  to  pay  me,  I  decided  to  get  from 
him  a  letter  of  recommendation ;  that  ought  to  be  valuable 
to  me  in  San  Vicente  anyhow. 

He  was  now  lecturing  in  the  summer  school,  but  the 
work  to-night  was  a  magazine  article.  He  met  me  dif- 
ferently ;  he  was  too  much  of  a  gentleman  to  allude  to  Sat- 
urday night's  adventure,  but  surely  that  was  what  made 
the  change.  On  my  own  part,  so  much  had  come  and  gone 
since  then  that  I  had  quit  thinking  about  it  till  I  saw 
him,  and  something  odd  in  his  eyes  when  he  looked  at  me 
— a  kind  of  waked-up  expression,  as  though  he  had  just 
discovered  that  I  was  a  human  being — brought  it  all  back. 

The  work  went  well ;  we  kept  at  it  till  after  midnight. 
Then,  as  he  came  close  to  the  machine  on  one  of  his  turns 
back  and  forth  through  the  room,  he  suddenly  stopped, 
picked  up  the  cover  and  set  it  over  the  keys. 

"There,"  he  said,  with  unusual  geniality,  "I  could  finish 
to-night — but  I  won't  quite  kill  you  this  time." 

"I'm  perfectly  willing  to  go  on — if  you  want  to,"  I  of- 
fered. 

"No,  no."  He  was  more  smiling  than  I  had  ever  seen 
him ;  I  realised  how  much  better  he  appeared,  physically ; 
his  colour  was  good  now  and  his  eye  bright ;  he  looked  a 
sound,  well  man.  "It's  too  late  for  any  more  work  to- 
night," he  told  me,  as  I  continued  to  sit  at  the  machine 
rather  helplessly. 

"Is  it  too  late  for  me  to  stay  a  little  while  ?"  I  began. 

"I  wanted  to "  I  hesitated  for  a  word,  and  he  broke 

in  on  me : 

"Of  course  not.    It  isn't  as  late  as  Saturday  night." 

He  was  laughing  as  he  spoke,  but  I  saw  he  rather  ex- 
pected me  to  say  something  about  my  curious  call  on  him. 


THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

I  didn't  intend  to  explain  how  it  happened — Rosalie  was 
right;  the  less  I  talked  about  that,  the  better.  A  little 
knot  of  manzanita  roots  smouldered  in  the  open  fireplace ; 
the  two  chairs  that  he  and  Dr.  Rush  usually  occupied  sat 
in  their  accustomed  places  before  the  hearth.  As  I  re- 
mained silent,  trying  to  get  my  request  into  shape,  Mr. 
Dale  came  across,  took  me  by  the  shoulders,  and  put  me 
into  the  doctor's  chair.  It  was  a  kindly,  cordial  action, 
and  I  remember  thinking  in  a  bewildered  way  that  he  had 
never  treated  me  the  least  bit  like  that  before. 

"There,"  he  said ;  "are  you  comfortable  ?  May  I  take 
this  one — and  smoke  ?" 

He  got  a  cigar  and  established  himself  opposite  me.  I 
sat  and  stared  at  him  so  long  that  he  finally  burst  out 
laughing. 

"Well  ?"  he  prompted ;  and  when  I  still  didn't  say  any- 
thing, it  came  once  more:  "Well — what  do  you  think  of 
this  man — now  that  you've  met  him  for  the  first  time  ?" 

"I  think "  To  my  own  immense  surprise,  I  choked 

so  that  I  couldn't  go  on.  I  felt  the  tears  in  my  eyes,  and 
was  desperately  anxious  that  he  shouldn't  notice.  I  had 
had  a  hard  day,  and  this  almost  affectionate  tone  from  a 
person  who  had  always  treated  me  more  like  a  useful  piece 
of  furniture  than  a  living  creature  upset  me.  I  wanted  to 
pour  out  a  heartful  of  thanks  to  him — to  tell  him  what 
he'd  been  to  me — the  mere  kindling  touch  of  his  person- 
ality, for  his  advice  and  suggestions  had  never  been  given 
very  lavishly  or  warmly.  He  just  sat  there  with  an  unlit 
cigar  between  his  fingers  and  laughed  at  me.  Suddenly — 
and  I  couldn't  have  been  more  surprised  if  the  chair  he 
sat  in  had  taken  life  and  done  something  of  the  sort — he 
leaned  forward  and  picked  up  my  hand. 

"Do  they  get  tired  ?"  he  asked,  spreading  my  fingers  out 
on  his  palm.  "I  look  at  them  sometimes  and  remember 
that  they've  been  doing  the  same  thing  all  day — and  I 
wonder  how  you  can  keep  it  up." 


CHLORODYNE  229 

"That's  what  I  wanted  to  stay  and — speak  to  you — 
about,"  I  faltered,  in  some  embarrassment. 

"Oh — it  was  something  you  had  to  speak  to  me  about  ?" 
He  repeated  my  words.  He  remained  leaning  forward, 
and  he  looked  even  more  alert;  but  he  dropped  my  hand 
and  waited  for  what  I  had  to  say. 

"I'm  leaving  the  'Clarion' "  I  began. 

"Why?"  He  got  up  suddenly,  reached  to  the  mantel 
for  matches  and  lit  his  cigar.  "I  think  you're  making  a 
mistake."  He  threw  his  burnt-out  match  in  the  ashes. 
He  didn't  wait  for  my  explanation,  but  went  right  on. 
"Nearly  all  beginners  get  the  idea  they  can  write  because 
they  can  appreciate  what  is  written;  they  do  some  stuff; 
their  injudicious  friends  praise  it;  so  they  fly  off  in  a 
great  flame  of  enthusiasm  and  try  to  get  paid  for  work  be- 
fore they've  learned  the  A  B  C  of  their  trade.  News- 
paper training  knocks  that  sort  of  notion  out  of  young 
idiots.  You're  making  a  mistake  to  leave  the  'Clarion.' ' 

"I  had  no  choice  in  the  matter,"  I  said,  chilled. 

"That's  too  bad."  His  tone  softened.  I  saw  he  thought 
I  had  lost  my  place ;  well— let  it  go — what  difference  did 
it  make  ? 

"So,"  I  got  around  to  it  at  last,  "I  wanted  to  ask  you 
for  a  written  recommendation — if  you  feel  like  giving  me 
one."- 

"I  certainly  do."  He  was  emphatic,  but  somehow  he 
had  lost  all  the  warmth  of  manner  with  which  he  had  put 
me  in  the  doctor's  chair.  He  seemed  to  question  me  with 
his  glance.  I  wondered  what  he  wanted  or  expected  of 
me  that  was  different.  He  turned  to  the  little  fireside 
desk,  pulled  forward  a  sheet  of  paper,  and  began  to  write, 
remarking : 

"It  had  better  be  all  in  my  own  script.  I  believe  that's 
the  etiquette  for  notes  of  the  sort." 

When  he  finished  and  blotted  it  I  was  on  my  feet.  As 
I  held  out  my  hand  for  it,  he  twisted  round  and  stared. 


£30  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

"Is  that  all  ?"  lie  asked,  and  his  tone  sounded  angry. 

"Why,  yes,"  I  faltered.  "I  had  thought  of  going  out 
to  the  college  with  this.  You  wouldn't  mind,  would  you  ? 

I — if It's  the  dull  season  for  business,  and  I  thought 

I  might  get  some  work  out  there." 

With  a  slow  motion  he  took  up  the  cigar,  which  he  had 
been  keeping  alight  by  an  occasional  puff  as  he  wrote.  He 
sat  and  smoked  with  his  back  to  me.  It  was  uncivil. 
Finally  he  said: 

"If  you  go  around  San  Vicente  College  hunting  a  job, 
you'd  better  leave  my  name  out  of  it." 

It  came  like  a  slap  in  the  face.  Bewildered,  I  reached 
forward  to  put  the  note  down  on  the  desk  beside  him.  At 
my  movement  he  whirled,  but  when  he  saw  what  I  was 
doing,  got  to  his  feet  and  stood  drawn  up,  looking  me 
over. 

"My  recommendation  won't  do  you  any  good  out  there," 
he  had  the  grace  to  explain,  when  he  saw  how  he  had  hurt 
me.  "I'm  leaving  them.  They  call  it  breach  of  contract 
— it  was  only  a  verbal  agreement — and  choose  to  be  very 
angry." 

"Are  you  going  East  ?"  I  asked,  mechanically — not  that 
I  had  any  interest  in  knowing.  Something  in  the  last 
three  minutes  had  told  me  that  Frank  Hollis  Dale  would 
never  be  any  further  from  me  than  he  was  at  that  minute. 
Half  the  girth  of  the  globe  didn't  matter.  An  inexplicable 
something  had  come  up  that  separated  him  from  anything 
in  my  world  as  completely  as  though  I  had  never  known 
him — and  I  had  no  idea  what  it  was.  I  left  the  note  on 
the  table  and  was  starting  to  the  door  when  he  answered 
my  question. 

"Going  East  ?  Of  course  I  am.  Why  would  I  stay  here 
— when  I've  got  my  health  again  ?  Ugh — it  will  be  a  re- 
lief to  get  back  to  where  there  are  people  with  some  sense 
in  their  heads !"  I  wondered  at  the  bitter  energy  of  his 
speech. 


CHLORODYNE  231 

"Well,"  I  said,  feebly,  "good-bye." 

He  had  faced  around  toward  the  mantel,  and  was  set- 
ting a  framed  photograph  in  place  there. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said,  without  turning  his  head.  I  went 
out  and  shut  the  door. 

Next  morning  I  could  see  from  my  window  that  there 
were  open  boxes  and  excelsior  down  by  the  bungalow  porch. 
While  I  was  dressing  I  heard  hammering  from  that  direc- 
tion. He  had  begun  the  first  packing.  Somehow  it  cut 
awfully  little  figure  with  me.  Even  his  disagreeable  be- 
haviour of  last  night  seemed  trivial  at  the  side  of  the  ques- 
tion as  to  whether  I  could  or  could  not  get  a  place.  I  was 
a  little  sorry  I  had  gone  away  and  left  his  letter  of  recom- 
mendation. I  wondered  whether,  when  he  got  over  his 
ugly  spell — I  couldn't  yet  decide  what  he  had  been  mad 
about — he'd  be  good  enough  to  mail  it  to  me.  I  didn't 
see  why  the  college  authorities  shouldn't  value  his  recom- 
mendation, even  if  they  were  angry  at  him. 

That  day  was  more  discouraging  than  the  first.  Still  I 
did  find  one  or  two  places  where  they  thought  tKey  could 
do  something  for  me  in  the  course  of  a  month  or  six  weeks 
— when  business  picked  up  in  the  fall.  I  got  on  the  track 
of  a  stenographer's  job  at  the  Kalama  mines,  and  thought 
enough  of  it  to  run  up  there  and  investigate.  I  found  the 
position  already  filled.  The  trip  kept  me  away  over  night. 

When  I  got  into  San  Vicente,  about  nine  in  the  morn- 
ing, I  stopped  at  the  Phipps  school  before  going  out  to  the 
house. 

I  met  Harvey  in  the  hallway.  His  look  in  my  direction 
would  have  been  funny  if  it  hadn't  been  aggravating.  He 
sort  of  started  forward  as  if  he  was  going  to  shake  hands 
and  try  to  talk  to  me ;  then  drew  back,  scared  looking,  and 
finally  stood  while  I  went  past  him.  Rather  to  my  sur- 
prise, I  found  that  Pop  Phipps  had  a  day's  work  for  me, 
so  I  stayed  right  there.  When  I  got  home  that  evening 
I  found  that  Mrs.  Eccles  had  been  telephoning  me  since 


THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

noon  the  day  before,  and  had  said  she  would  ring  up  again 
at  five  o'clock.  It  made  me  uneasy,  so  that  I  stayed  down 
in  the  hall  with  my  hat  on,  waiting.  At  five  sharp  the 
'phone  rang.  The  first  sound  of  Mrs.  Eccles's  voice  would 
have  told  me  that  something  was  the  matter.  She  wanted 
me  to  come  right  out  to  Las  Reudas;  Boy  was  sick;  and 
for  a  while  I  couldn't  understand  where  he  was.  Finally 
I  made  out  that  he'd  been  taken  over  to  the  Watkins's. 

"Are  you  'phoning  from  there?"  I  asked,  and  the  an- 
swer came  back  quickly: 

"No,  ma'am.  I  am  not  at  Mrs.  Watkins's.  I  am  us- 
ing Mrs.  Pendleton's  telephone.  My  goodness,  Mrs.  Baird 
— where  have  you  been  ?  You  want  to  get  out  here  just 
as  quick  as  ever  you  can." 

I  didn't  stop  to  find  how  Boy  came  to  be  at  Delia's,  but 
got  straight  to  Las  Reudas.  Mrs.  Eccles  was  waiting  for 
me  on  the  street;  she  had  evidently  been  uncertain  as  to 
which  route  I  might  take,  and  stood  where  she  could  see 
me  coming  from  either  direction.  She  was  so  worked  up 
that,  for  the  first  time,  I  was  really  scared. 

"Is  he  very  sick?  How  is  it  that  he  is  at  the  Wat- 
kins's ?"  I  asked,  as  we  almost  ran  along  the  sidewalk. 

With  a  great  deal  of  "I  says  to  her"  and  "She  says  to 
me,"  Mrs.  Eccles  began  to  explain  how  Delia  had  been 
mad  about  the  new  orders  that  Boy  wasn't  to  go  there  any 
more,  declaring  such  behaviour  showed  that  I  wasn't  fit  to 
have  the  child.  Boy  would  run  away  and  go  over  there, 
and  Mrs.  Eccles  had  fusses  with  Delia  when  she  went  to 
bring  him  back.  Yesterday  he  had  eaten  something  there 
that  didn't  agree  with  him.  When  Mrs.  Eccles  missed 
him,  and  ran  over,  Delia  had  already  got  him  into  bed, 
and  was  sending  for  her  own  doctor  and  for  Harvey. 

"Her  own  doctor?"  I  echoed.  "You  ought  to  have 
called  Dr.  Rush  when  you  couldn't  get  me."  I  ran  across 
the  porch  to  ring  the  bell. 

"There,  that's  right — blame  me!"  said  Mrs.  Eccles,  be- 


CHLORODYNE  233 

ginning  to  cry.  "I  did  my  best  to  stop  Mrs.  Watkins  from 
sending  for  Dr.  Ballard.  I  told  her  Jawn  didn't  need 
strong  medicine.  Ballard  always  gives  dreadful  strong 
medicine  to  children.  And  I've  been  telephoning  and  try- 
ing to  get  you  ever  since.  I've  been  nearly  crazy." 

"JSTever  mind ;  Fm  here  now,"  I  said,  punching  at  the 
bell. 

"Well,  you're  needed.  Mrs.  Watkins  wouldn't  listen  to 
a  word  from  me.  She'd  hardly  let  me  go  in  the  room  to 
see  him.  Her  and  Ballard  had  it  all  their  own  way.  I 
know  they've  give  him  a  lot  of  stuff;  he  just  lays  there 
like  a  dead  child,  and  Mrs.  Watkins  keeps  pouring  the 
medicine  into  him — I  know  she  does.  He  wouldn't  be 
like  that  if  she  didn't." 

"I  wish  I  could  get  word  to  Dr.  Rush,"  I  said,  and 
jabbed  the  bell  again. 

"Why,  my  goodness !  He's  right  there  at  Mrs.  Pendle- 
ton's  this  minute,  if  he  ain't  left.  She's  got  one  of  her 
nervous  spells,  and  they  can't  find  Pendleton,  and  she 
thinks  the  sun  rises  and  sets  in  Dr.  Rush." 

Delia  opened  the  door  to  us  at  the  moment.  She  had 
on  an  old  bathrobe  of  Harvey's,  her  hair  pugged  up  any 
way,  and  she  looked  as  if  she  had  been  losing  sleep  or 
crying.  She  sort  of  flattened  back  at  sight  of  me,  as 
though  something  had  hit  her  on  the  forehead. 

"Why — Foncie!"  she  said,  but  she  stood  still  in  the 
door  and  didn't  ask  me  in. 

"I  came  to  get  Boyce,"  I  told  Her,  without  any  pre- 
liminaries. 

"He's  asleep  now.  You  wouldn't  want  to  disturb  him 
when  he's  asleep,"  she  said,  still  keeping  the  knob  in  her 
hand.  It  was  almost  as  though  she  would  have  shut  the 
door  in  my  face. 

"I  guess  he  is  asleep !"  Mrs.  Eccles  cried,  and  her  voice 
began  to  be  hysterical.  "With  all  that  stuff  you're  giving 
him!"  That  reminded  me. 


234  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

"Run  quick  and  get  Dr.  Rush,"  I  said,  as  I  pushed  past 
Delia. 

"Do  you  want  to  insult  Dr.  Ballard  ?"  Dele  called  after 
me  as  I  was  running  up  the  stairs. 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  not  knowing  at  all  what  I  said. 

She  made  no  move  to  follow  me  as  I  rushed  straight  to 
her  door.  Inside,  Delia's  own  bed  had  been  pulled  out 
into  the  middle  of  the  room,  away  from  all  draughts.  The 
shades  were  drawn  so  low  that  at  first  I  could  hardly  see 
what  lay  on  it — Boy,  his  eyes  rolled  up,  his  face  sunken 
and  greenish,  grayish  white,  his  whole  body  rigid  and  mo- 
tionless except  for  the  two  little  thumbs,  that  were  moving 
rythmically,  regularly. 

When  my  eyes  got  accustomed  to  the  dimness  I  saw  that 
Fairy  lay  at  his  feet,  an  old  dress  skirt  of  Delia's  under 
her  to  protect  the  white  spread.  I  didn't  disturb  her  as 
I  knelt  there.  Boy  must  be  dying.  I  faced  that  thought 
during  the  few  moments  before  I  heard  Dr.  Rush  in  the 
hall  below.  He  called  to  me  to  come  down,  and 
when  I  stopped  halfway  on  the  stairs,  he  said,  looking 
up  at  me  but  speaking  rather  to  Delia,  who  was  beside 
him: 

"I  can't  interfere  with  a  patient  of  Dr.  Ballard's." 

"He's  not  Dr.  Ballard's  patient,"  I  cried.  "I  never 
called  Dr.  Ballard.  I've  called  you.  Oh,  come  quick — 
I'm  afraid  he's  dying."  That  brought  Dr.  Rush  right  up 
the  stairs.  Delia  and  Mrs.  Eccles  came  along  with  him. 
We  all  stood  around  like  frightened  children.  The  first 
thing  he  said  was : 

"Phew !  Open  these  windows,  and  take  that  dog  away." 
Then,  as  Mrs.  Eccles  was  gathering  Fairy  off  the  bed,  he 
added,  testily,  "What  in  the  world  did  you  bring  a  dog  in 
here  for  ?" 

"Ask  Mrs.  Watkins,"  she  said,  resentfully.  "I  didn't 
have  anything  to  do  with  it." 

"I  had  the  doggie  in  to  see  if  Jack  would  know  her," 


CHLORODYNE  235 

Delia  defended.  "And  he  did ;  he  knew  her  perfectly  this 
morning — perfectly." 

The  shades  were  run.  up  now;  Mrs.  Eccles  shut  Fairy 
out ;  and  the  doctor  went  across  and  examined  his  patient. 
He  asked  for  the  medicine  that  was  being  given,  glanced 
at  the  bottle  Delia  handed  him,  sniffed  at  it,  gave  her  a 
.keen  look,  and  said: 

"Where's  the  other  one?" 

"It's  only — there's  hardly  a  full  dose  of  the  other  left," 
Delia  babbled.  "It  was  only  to  be  given  if  he  was  restless. 
He  isn't  restless  any  more." 

"No,"  said  the  doctor,  dryly,  "he  wouldn't  be  after 
you'd  administered  the  better  part  of  a  bottle  of  soothing 
syrup." 

"It  was  not  soothing  syrup."  Delia  tried  to  be  dig' 
nified.  "It's  a  regular  prescription."  And  she  got  the 
bottle  from  the  bathroom  shelf. 

"Huh !"  grunted  the  doctor,  smelling  its  cork ;  "chloro- 
dyne!  How  close  did  you  give  these  doses?  When  did 
you  begin  ?" 

"Why,  last  night."  Delia's  air  of  authority  was  giving 
way.  "It  worked  splendidly ;  he  went  right  to  sleep  after 
the  first  dose.  But  he  didn't  sleep  long,  and  I  was  sure  he 
needed  his  rest,  and  so  I — so  I " 

"So  you  kept  on  giving  it  to  him.  How  many  times  did 
you  repeat  it  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  I — just  till  he  slept  sound.  Dr.  Bal- 
lard  told  me  not  to  wake  him  up  to  give  him  medicine,  so 
I Just  till  he  slept  real  sound." 

Dr.  Rush's  angry  eye  measured  the  distance  down  in 
the  bottle. 

"Well,  madam,"  he  said,  "you  may  thank  your  stars 
you  haven't  quite  killed  this  child." 

"Sir!"  Delia  drew  herself  up.  "Dr.  Ballard's  my 
physician,  and  that's  his  medicine  you've  got  in  your  hand. 
I'll  not  stay  here  to " 


236  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

"What  makes  the  thumbs  move  that  way?  It's  hor- 
rible!" Mrs.  Eccles  burst  out,  uncontrollably,  tears  run- 
ning down  her  face. 

"Narcotic  poisoning — morphine,  Indian  hemp,  and 
prussic  acid,  with  chloral,"  said  the  doctor,  shortly.  "This 
stuff  has  all  those  in  it." 

"It  has  not !  I  told  you  that  was  Dr.  Ballard's  medi- 
cine you're  talking  that  way  about !"  Delia  whimpered  at 
him,  took  another  look  at  Boy,  then  fairly  ran  out  of  the 
room. 

"Tell  me  the  truth,  Dr.  Rush,"  I  said,  and  my  lips  were 
dry.  "Is  he — going  to  die  ?" 

"No,  certainly  not."  He  scowled  and  shook  his  head. 
"We'll  pull  him  through  all  right.  You'll  have  to  see  that 
he  gets  no  more  chlorodyne." 

He  took  out  his  pocket  case  and  prepared  a  hypodermic, 
explaining  to  me : 

"I  want  to  get  this  caffein  into  him  as  promptly  as  pos- 
sible— it's  an  antidote  for  the  opium.  He'll  sleep — but  a 
good  deal  more  naturally — for  some  time.  Give  him  all 
the  water  he'll  take,  keep  the  air  in  the  room  fresh.  Use 
a  hot  water  bag  if  he's  in  pain — and  'phone  to  me  any  min- 
ute you  need  me." 

I  realised  while  he  was  speaking  that  I  couldn't  stay 
there  in  the  Watkins  house  and  nurse  Boy. 

"Could  he  be  moved  ?"  I  asked. 

Dr.  Rush  threw  up  his  head  and  stared  at  me. 

"Oh — you're  willing  to  move  him  ?"  He  nodded. 
"That's  good — just  the  thing.  A  rush  of  fresh  air  in  his 
face  is  the  very  antidote  for  him.  Get  something  warm 
to  wrap  him  up  and  I'll  take  the  two  of  you  in  in  my 
machine  right  now." 

At  that,  I  said,  blankly : 

"Where  shall  I  go?  They  won't  let  me  keep  him  at 
the  Poinsettia." 

"You  can  come  to  my  house,"  said  Mrs.  Eccles.     "I'll 


I  RAN  AND  GOT  HOLD  Of  DR.  RUSH'S  ARM  AND  UE 
SAID  TO  ME  OVER  AND  OVER:  "ALL  RIGHT.  I 
WON'T  HIT  HIM  AGAIN" 


CHLORODYNE  237 

sleep  on  a  cot  and  give  you  my  bed.     I "     But  Dr. 

Rush  had  already  gone  down  to  the  telephone.     He  came 
back  in  a  few  minutes,  saying: 

"It's  all  right.    We're  going  to  the  Poinsettia." 

"Foncie!"  Delia  overhauled  us  below  as  we  were  car- 
rying Boy  out,  wrapped  in  one  of  her  down  puffs.  "I  feel 
just  awful  about  the  way  you're  taking  this.  Hod  and  I 
meant  so  well  by  the  child,  and  you  seem  to  think " 

"Oh,  Delia" — I  couldn't  bear  to  listen  any  longer — 
"what  difference  does  it  make  how  I  take  it  or  what  I 
think  ?  If  Boyce  dies " 

"I  don't  see  that  it  will  be  my  fault."  Delia  was  finally 
in  tears.  "We  sent  for  the  best  physician  in  town  as  soon 
as  he  seemed  to  be  the  least  bit  ailing.  I  was  up  with  him 
again  and  again  last  night — and  Hod,  too.  Then  here  you 
come  and  drag  him  away  from  the  house  as  if  we  were 
murderers,  and  take  him  out  and  jounce  him  around  this 
way!  You'll  be  the  one  to  blame  if — if  anything 
happens." 

Dr.  Rush  put  me  into  the  seat  of  his  runabout  and  ar- 
ranged Boy  on  my  lap  as  exactly  as  if  we  had  been  alone. 
Mrs.  Eccles  had  cut  across  lots  to  get  a  bundle  of  clothes 
ready  for  us  to  pick  up  as  we  passed.  I  never  looked  to 
see  if  Delia  was  there,  though  the  curt  lifting  of  Dr. 
Rush's  hat  hold  me  she  was.  I  hadn't  eyes  or  attention  for 
anything  at  the  moment,  for  as  we  drove  away  the  cool 
air  and  swift  motion  roused  Boy,  and,  to  my  unspeakable 
relief,  he  looked  up  and  knew  me.  He  sank  back  immedi- 
ately, but  his  face  looked  better. 

"That  caffein's  getting  hold,"  the  doctor  said.  "The 
drive's  doing  him  good.  I  thought  it  would.  We'll  get 
through  all  right.  Dale  said  they'd  have  the  room  ready 
for  you  at  the  Poinsettia." 

"Mr.  Dale  ?" 

"Yes.  I  got  Frank  to  ask.  I  knew  Mrs.  Thrasher 
wouldn't  refuse  him  anything." 


238  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

We  went  ahead  in  silence  for  quite  a  while  after  that. 
I  was  studying  Boy's  little  pinched  face,  that  seemed  to 
gather  some  colour  from  the  warmth  of  a  wonderful  after- 
glow that  streamed  on  us  out  of  the  west.  I  don't  know 
why  I  should  have  said  anything  to  the  doctor,  but  all  sorts 
of  things  come  boiling  to  the  surface  at  such  a  time;  I 
found  myself  telling  him,  first,  of  Mr.  Dale's  seeming  to 
get  mad  at  me  the  other  night,  and  then  of  how  good  he'd 
been  to  me  when  I  was  locked  out.  He  listened,  asking 
an  occasional  question,  curiously;  and  I  ran  on  and  on 
about  it;  I  hardly  noticed  what  I  was  saying.  Then  Boy 
opened  his  eyes  again.  This  time  he  said,  "Muvver,"  and 
I  forgot  everything  else  in  that. 

The  room  was  ready  for  us  when  we  got  to  the  Poin- 
settia.  Everybody  was  good  to  me.  Miss  Creevey  brought 
a  hot  water  bag,  because  she  said  she  was  afraid  I  wouldn't 
have  any  and  the  doctor  would  call  for  one.  Mrs. 
Thrasher  herself  came  up  to  look  at  Boy  and  offer  help, 
while  the  Martins  were  as  upset  as  if  he'd  been  a  relative. 
It  was  really  like  coming  home.  Boy  looked  about  and 
appeared  to  know  where  he  was  when  we  got  him  into  the 
room. 

Mrs.  Tipton  sat  with  me  nearly  all  that  first  night. 
Boy  didn't  need  us,  but  I  couldn't  have  slept  anyway,  and 
we  got  to  talking,  so  that  it  was  after  three  o'clock  when 
she  went  downstairs.  I  got  my  first  insight  into  the  real 
woman  there  was  in  this  Virginia  lady.  Nothing  was  said 
between  us  directly  as  to  Joe  Ed,  but  she  told  me  a  good 
deal  about  his  father,  and  his  grandfather,  and  how  some 
money  had  been  tied  up  for  him  when  he  was  a  baby.  He 
would  get  it  now  in  a  few  months  when  he  came  of  age. 
She  hoped  it  might  start  him  in  life. 

Money — oh ! — I  could  see  that  was  what  Addie  and  her 
lawyer  were  after.  Mrs.  Tipton  knew  it,  and  wanted  me 
to  understand,  but  she  made  no  plea  or  defence;  she  was 
too  proud  and  brave  for  that.  I  wondered  if  she  had 


CHLORODYNE  239 

heard  from  Joe  Ed  lately.  I  hadn't.  As  we  two  mothers 
sat  there  in  the  small  hours,  I  looked  at  my  own  son,  and 
wished  I  might  be  able  to  do  something  for  her  and  hers. 
Addie  was  gone  from  the  Poinsettia  this  long  time.  She 
was  working  at  the  cafeteria  in  the  Cronin  Building.  I 
used  to  see  her  handsome,  sullen  face  there  sometimes. 

I  could  never  forget  Dr.  Rush  for  the  way  he  pulled 
Boy  through  that  terrible  dosing — there  had  been  no  real 
illness  to  recover  from.  I  know  it  was  the  doctor's  faith- 
ful work  that  put  the  child  on  his  feet  so  quickly.  It 
was  only  three  days  that  he  lay  there  sick  in  my  room.  I 
didn't  give  much  thought  to  anything  else.  Dr.  Rush 
came  in  several  times  each  day,  always  saying  that  he  just 
ran  in  because  he  was  at  Dale's  anyhow.  Mr.  Dale  him- 
self I  didn't  see  to  speak  to,  though  I  got  glimpses  of 
him  from  the  window.  And  when  the  third  day  came, 
and  Boy  seemed  about  as  well  as  ever,  I  decided  to  put  my 
pride  in  my  pocket,  and  get  that  letter  of  recommendation 
before  Mr.  Dale  left.  I  would  try  it  out  at  San  Vicente 
College,  and  if  I  failed  there,  go  on  with  the  child  to  Hop- 
fields.  I  left  Boy  in  the  front  hall,  with  a  lot  of  maga- 
zines and  a  box  of  coloured  crayons.  As  I  went  out  the 
door  I  saw  Dr.  Rush's  machine  and  knew  he  would  be  at 
the  bungalow.  I  was  glad.  It  would  relieve  any  possible 
awkwardness. 

Before  I  got  to  the  bungalow  I  could  hear  the  two  men's 
voices,  speaking  loud — quarrelling,  it  would  have  sounded 
like,  if  I  hadn't  known  their  arguments  of  old.  I  stopped 
on  the  porch — why,  surely  they  were  quarrelling!  As  I 
stood  there,  question  and  answer  followed  each  other  like 
an  exchange  of  shots.  First  Mr.  Dale's  voice  soared  out, 
cold,  bitter: 

"Well,  was  it  she  that  thought  I'd  ask  favours  for  her  ?" 

"Don't  make  any  difference.  It's  certainly  up  to  you 
to  do  her  favours.  Aren't  you  under  plenty  of  obligation 
to  that  poor  thing?" 


240  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

"Obligations — obligations?"  It  was  a  stutter  of  rage. 
"Not  as  many  as  she'd  have  put  me  under — willingly — 
gladly." 

"Don't  tell  me  she  ran  after  you — it's  not  so,"  Dr.  Rush 
roared.  "I  don't  meddle  with  any  man's  business — but 
that  much  I  know.  Wasn't  I  here  with  you  evening  after 
evening  ?  Didn't  I  see  the  two  of  you  together  ?" 

Could  they  be  speaking  of  me  ?  I  stepped  into  the  room. 
Mr.  Dale  was  facing  the  door.  His  eye  went  through  me 
as  though  I  had  been  thin  air.  He  was  positively  shining 
with  fury.  I  had  never  seen  him  look  so  handsome. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  call  it,"  he  said,  coolly.  "Sat- 
urday night  she  came  down  to  my  sleeping  porch  in  the 
small  hours.  If  that's  not  so,  she's  here  to  deny  it." 

Dr.  Rush  never  looked  at  me.  What  a  mercy  that  I  had 
happened  to  tell  him  all  about  that  miserable  Saturday 
night !  He  walked  up  close  to  Mr.  Dale  and  said : 

"Frank — I'll  give  you  one  more  chance  to  do  the  decent 
thing.  What  did  she  come  to  you  for  ?" 

"At  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  ?  What  would  you 
suppose  ?" 

"Be  careful — I  know  all  about  it." 

"Oh!"  Mr.  Dale  stepped  back  a  little  and  drew  him- 
self up,  glaring  at  the  other.  "Oh — you're  the  man  she 
was  out  with — eh?" 

"You're  a  liar!" 

Word  and  blow  came  together.  I  had  stood  flattened 
back  against  the  wall  by  the  door,  helpless,  staring;  but 
when  I  saw  Dr.  Rush's  fist  shoot  out  and  Mr.  Dale  go 
crashing  down  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  I  shut  my  eyes. 

When  I  opened  them  again  he  was  still  lying  there,  full 
length,  but  moving  to  get  up.  He  hadn't  been  hard  enough 
hit  to  hurt  him  very  badly,  though  I  guessed  he'd  have  a 
black  eye  from  it  later,  but  he'd  been  caught  in  just  such 
a  way  that  the  blow  overbalanced  him. 

Dr.  Rush's  face  was  a  study.    I  think  he  was  sorry,  but, 


CHLORODYNE 

most  of  all,  he  looked  astonished.  I  ran  and  got  hold  of 
his  arm,  and  he  said  to  me  over  and  over : 

"All  right.  I  won't  hit  him  again."  Then,  as  he  saw 
Mr.  Dale  wasn't  killed,  "Come — let's  get  out  of  here.  My 
Lord ! — what  a  fool  temper — a  doctor  mauling  his  patients 
around !  Come.  Come." 

We  went  as  far  as  the  tunnel,  and  then  I  had  to  run 
back  and  get  his  hat.  Mr.  Dale  was  gone  from  the  room ; 
I  could  hear  him  in  his  bedroom  beyond,  bathing  his  face. 
I  never  saw  him  again.  I  had  forgotten  the  letter  I  came 
after. 

When  I  got  back  to  the  doctor  I  found  him  still  so  dis- 
turbed that  we  walked  up  and  down  the  tunnel  a  few 
turns.  Under  the  circumstances,  I  asked  a  question  or 
two. 

"Don't  you  see  ?"  the  doctor  said.  "It's  a  pretty  plain 
case.  Dale's  the  most  arrogant  devil  where  women  are 
concerned  that  I  ever  knew.  They  do  run  after  him  and 
make  fools  of  themselves  about  him." 

"Oh,  yes,"  I  said;  "I've  seen  that,  but  did  you  think 
that  I " 

He  didn't  let  me  finish. 

"No.  You  behaved  all  right,  and  like  a  sensible  little 
woman,  always." 

"Then  what " 

Again  he  interrupted  me. 

"Oh,  it  just  happened  that  that  monumental  egotist  in 
there  got  to  feeling  pretty  good  and  would  have  liked  some- 
body to  make  love  to  him.  You  got  him  to  help  you  in 
through  the  window  that  night — it  suggested  the  idea  that 
you'd  be  the  one."  The  red  spark  of  fighting  fire  had  died 
out  of  Dr.  Rush's  brown  eyes.  He  turned  his  hat  in  his 
hands  thoughtfully.  "The  evening  you  asked  him  for  the 
recommendation,  he  gave  you  the  chance — and  you  didn't 
come  across.  I  realised  the  whole  situation  when  you  first 
told  me  about  it.  That  infernal  pride  of  his  would  make 


THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

him  say  anything  to  save  his  face."  He  chuckled  a  little 
ruefully.  "I'm  afraid  I  changed  his  map."  He  looked 
down  at  his  knuckles,  shook  his  big  shoulders,  and  sighed, 
"There  goes  a  lifelong  friendship — so  far  as  I'm  con- 
cerned." 

To  think  that  I,  by  miserable  chance,  should  have  been 
the  wedge  that  split  such  a  friendship !  I  hadn't  a  word  to 
tell  him  how  sorry  I  was.  If  I  had  known  where  to  bor- 
row a  camping  outfit — or  buy  it  outright,  if  it  hadn't  cost 
too  much — I'd  have  been  for  starting  up  to  the  Hopfields 
district  the  next  morning.  As  it  was,  I  made  up  my  mind 
not  to  be  a  bit  longer  about  getting  off  than  I  had  to. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

A   CRY   FOR    HELP 

A  PPARENTLY  luck  was  with  me  in  this  matter  of 
x\  getting  away  from  San  Vicente.  As  soon  as  I  spoke 
of  the  hop-picking  plan  to  Mrs.  Tipton  she  offered  to  lend 
me  what  I  needed  from  the  Poinsettia's  camping  outfit. 
We  went  down  into  the  basement  and  selected  the  things 
— blankets,  mattress  bag,  cooking  vessels,  agate  dishes  and 
iron  knives  and  forks,  and  a  little  camp  stove.  They  all 
packed  neatly  into  the  big  bag,  and  I  could  check  them  on 
my  ticket. 

It  was  a  weight  off  my  mind — I  felt  fairly  gay  when  I 
took  Boy  downtown  and  bought  him  stout  shoes,  another 
suit  of  Can't-bust-'ems,  and  a  wide  straw  hat.  He  could 
hardly  wait  to  show  the  outfit  to  Mr.  Martin,  with  whom 
he  was  full  partners  these  days.  The  old  couple  were  en- 
tertaining my  son  at  dinner  in  their  room  that  night; 
she'd  been  having  trouble  with  her  foot  and  didn't  come 
down  to  the  table.  It  was  funny  to  see  how  much  interest 
the  idle  women  in  the  Poinsettia  took  in  this  new  enter- 
prise of  mine.  I  suppose  it  attracted  their  attention  as 
being  something  doing.  They  discussed  it  with  me  sol- 
emnly ;  it  might  have  been  the  choice  of  a  life  career  from 
the  weight  they  put  on  it.  Several  of  them  contributed 
small  gifts,  and  all  of  them  gave  good  advice. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  when  I'd  pretty  well  got  every- 
thing done,  I  left  Boy  with  the  Martins  and  went  down- 
town once  more.  I  must  register  my  new  address  with 
Pop  Phipps  in  case  anything  turned  up  for  me.  I  would 
go  around  by  the  railway  station  after  doing  that,  buy  my 
ticket  for  to-morrow's  journey,  and  attend  to  the  checking 
of  my  baggage.  All  day  luck  held.  Coming  down  in  the 

243 


THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

elevator  at  the  Cronin  Building  I  met  Addie  with — of  all 
people — little  Mr.  Bates.  Of  course,  they  both  worked  in 
the  building,  but  it  was  funny  to  see  them  together,  and 
funnier  still  when  he  asked  if  they  could  have  a  word  with 
me — if  they  could!  I  said,  "Why,  certainly,"  and  we 
turned  into  a  little  side  hall  where  we  were  fairly  private. 

"I  suppose  you  know  I'm  a  member  of  the  bar  of  San 
Vicente  County,  Mrs.  Baird  ?"  he  opened  up. 

I  hadn't  known  it,  but  I  nodded. 

"I'm  handling  Miss  Schoonover's  suit."  He  jerked  his 
head  toward  Addie,  who  stood  at  his  shoulder,  her  feet 
planted  a  little  wide,  looking  like  a  thunder-cloud.  "She's 
just  informed  me — and  she  ought  to  have  done  so  at  first 

— that  you "  He  broke  off  significantly,  and  Addie 

spoke  without  looking  up : 

"Aw,  I  told  him — about  your  ketchin'  me  that  night." 

"Yes,"  said  Bates,  "but,  Mrs.  Baird,  you  certainly 
wouldn't — you  wouldn't " 

When  I  failed  to  fill  out  his  pause  for  him  with  an  as- 
surance of  what  I  would  not  do,  he  finished  hastily : 

"In  short,  are  the  defendants  aware  of  your  knowledge  ? 
Are  they  going  to  call  you  as  a  witness  ?" 

I  looked  past  him  at  the  girl.  She  had  reddened  darkly, 
and  didn't  meet  my  eye,  but  kept  staring  angrily  at  her 
lawyer. 

"I'm  very  sorry  for  you,  Addie,"  I  said,  as  though  the 
two  of  us  had  been  alone. 

"That's  right — that's  right,"  Bates  put  in  briskly.  "I 
told  her  your  sympathy  would  be  with  her.  Now — er — 
could  you,  perhaps,  help  us  to  the  whereabouts  of  the  de- 
fendant ?" 

Again  I  spoke  to  Addie  as  though  her  officious  lawyer 
had  not  been  present : 

"Nobody  knows  where  Joe  Ed  is.  His  mother  doesn't. 
He's  knocking  about  the  world  somewhere,  under  a  false 
name  probably,  picking  up  a  living  any  way  he  can.  You 


A  CRY  FOR  HELP  24,5 

know  what  that  means  to  a  boy  of  his  age — and  dispo- 
sition." 

"I  can't  help  it,"  the  girl  burst  out.  She  turned  on 
Bates  when  he  would  have  spoken.  "Shut  your  head!" 
she  ordered.  "You  put  me  up  to  this.  When  you  was 
trying  to  get  me  to  sue  you  was  mighty  polite." 

Bates  cut  a  stealthy  eye  round  in  my  direction  before 
he  said  sharply  to  his  client: 

"You  talk  too  much.  If  I'm  to  handle  your  case,  you 
keep  still." 

"What's  the  use  ?  It  was  Joe  Ed  Tipton  or  nobody  with 
you;  and  anybody  but  a  fool  could  see  that  Mrs.  Baird 
ain't  on  our  side." 

"Now  you  have  spilled  the  beans !"  cried  Bates.  "It's 
good-night,  nurse.  Mrs.  Baird,  I  beg  you  to  believe  that 
I  didn't  know  the  nature  of  this  suit — when — when — • 
ah " 

"That'll  about  hold  you,"  Addie  interrupted,  fiercely. 
Then,  turning  to  me,  "There  won't  be  no  suit.  You  can 
tell  the  Mrs."  And  she  walked  away  down  the  hall. 

I  left  Bates  in  the  middle  of  superfluous  explanations 
that  this  wasn't  his  case  anyhow;  that  the  firm  merely  al- 
lowed him  the  handling  of  certain — ah — certain Had 

him  appear  in  business  they  would  have  been  ashamed  of, 
I  suppose.  I  got  my  car  and  went  home. 

There  was  a  wonderful  sunset  that  evening ;  clear,  glow- 
ing, it  welled  from  the  west,  flowed  through  the  streets, 
and  seemed  to  drown  out  the  city,  since  somehow  a  town 
all  flooded  with  sunset  light  is  not  a  town  any  more.  At 
the  house  it  was  that  quiet  hour  just  before  dinner.  My 
heart  was  at  peace  as  I  let  myself  into  the  Poinsettia  for 
what  might  be  the  last  time.  Once  more  luck  was  with 
me ;  I  caught  Mrs.  Tipton  in  the  empty  hall,  just  getting 
upstairs  to  change  her  dress  for  dinner.  I  gave  her  my 
news  in  a  very  few  words.  She  just  stood  there  above  me 
and  looked  at  me  with  swimming  eyes,  though  her  deli- 


246  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

cate,  short-chinned  little  face  still  held  its  look  of  smiling 
reserve. 

"I  won't  thank  you — in  words,"  she  said,  under  her 
breath,  turned  abruptly  and  went  on  up  the  stairs — the 
frail,  brown  reed  of  a  woman,  stoical  as  a  big,  strong,  dig- 
nified man,  and  as  shy  of  making  a  scene,  or  showing  any 
emotion.  I  was  fairly  bubbling  with  gladness  that  it  was 
I  who  had  been  the  one  to  bring  her  such  relief  as  had 
looked  out  of  those  swimming  eyes  of  hers.  There  came 
comically  into  my  mind  that  ridiculous  saying  of  Joe 
Ed's :  "  'Well  that  chore's  chored' — as  the  Yankee  woman 
said  when  she  poisoned  her  husband." 

Smiling  to  myself  at  the  recollection,  I  glanced  around 
to  gather  any  of  Boy's  scattered  belongings,  and  was  re- 
trieving bud'n  from  under  the  desk,  when  the  telephone 
rang.  Mrs.  Tipton  was  gone;  there  was  so  much  clatter 
in  the  kitchen,  where  dinner  was  being  prepared,  that  they 
wouldn't  have  heard  the  bell  there.  I  stopped,  the  toy  in 
my  hand,  and  answered  the  call. 

"Is  that  the  Poinsettia?"  The  voice  on  the  wire  was 
very  faint. 

"Yes." 

"Mrs.  Baird — if — if  Mrs.  Baird  is  in  the  house,  I  wish 
to  speak  to  her." 

"This  is  Mrs.  Baird." 

,     "What"?"    Silence  for  a  moment;  then,  "Gallic — is  that 
you?    Callie!" 

The  voice  sounded  queer — sort  of  strangled — but  I 
thought  I  knew  it,  and  answered : 

"Yes,  it's  Callie." 

"Are  you — are  there  people  in  the  hall  there  with  you  ?" 

"There's  nobody,  but  I  can " 

"No,  no!  And  don't  use  my  name  when  you  answer. 
If  anybody  comes  into  the  hall  while  you're  talking,  be 
careful  what  you  say.  Listen." 

"I'm  listening." 


A  CRY  FOR  HELP  247 

"Go  to  Mrs.  Tipton  and  get  the  key  to  my  room.  Tell 
her — tell  her  you  need  some  sewing  things — or — anything 
you  please.  Get  the  key." 

The  voice  failed. 

"What— what  shall  I  do  with  it  ?"  I  hesitated.  "Bring 
it  to  you  ?" 

"JSTo.  Listen."  The  tone  was  more  collected ;  this  was 
plainly  Eugenia  Chandler,  giving  carefully  thought  out 
directions.  "Get  a  blue  taffeta  dress  from  the  bathroom 
hooks.  It's  an  old  one  you  never  saw — dark  blue.  The 
little  black  hat  that  goes  with  it — that's  on  the  shelf  above. 
Put  them  in  my  light  bag.  Get  them  to  me  as  quick  as  you 
can.  Wait.  Listen.  Shoes  and  stockings — black.  Not 
shoes — pumps.  And  hairpins — a  bunch  of  hairpins.  Don't 
forget  them.  Gallic — you've  not  gone?  You're  lis- 
tening ?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  I  answered.  "I'm  to  take  them Where 

are  you?" 

"At  the  Union  Station.  Bring  the  things  here.  Don't 
tell  anybody.  Don't  let  anybody  see  you." 

At  the  Union  Station — I  had  been  there  myself  half  an 
hour  ago,  buying  my  ticket !  I  raised  my  head  and  looked 
around  the  hall.  In  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  the  place  would 
be  full  of  folks  coming  down  to  dinner. 

"If  you  could  wait  till  dark "  I  was  beginning,  but 

the  queer,  choking  voice  cut  in  on  me  with  quick  terror : 

"I  can't  wait.  Gallic — I  can't  more  than  hold  out  till 
you  get  here." 

"All  right— all  right,"  I  hurried.  "I'll  do  my  best. 
I  can  be  down  there  in  twenty  minutes." 

"You'll  find  me  in  the  women's  room,"  came  the  last 
word,  just  before  I  hung  up  and  took  the  stairs  at  a  run. 

When  I  tapped  on  Mrs.  Tipton's  door  and  asked  for 
Miss  Chandler's  key,  she  took  it  off  the  ring  and  handed 
it  to  me  without  a  word,  though  she  drew  an  odd,  deep 
little  breath  as  she  worked  it  free  from  among  the  others. 


THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

I  didn't  say  that  about  the  sewing  to  her.  It  seemed  sort 
of  unnecessary. 

The  blinds  were  down  in  Miss  Chandler's  room.  At 
first  I  thought  I'd  raise  them,  and  then  I  used  the  electric 
lights  instead.  As  they  flashed  up  I  looked  about  me.  I 
had  never  been  in  the  place  before  when  she  was  out  of  it. 
^ow  it  was  hard  to  associate  that  poor  little,  fugitive, 
strangled  voice  that  had  sent  me  here  wiUh  this  big,  quiet, 
elegant  security. 

I  ran  into  the  bathroom.  Garments  fell  in  heaps  as  I 
clawed  the  blue  dress  and  its  wrap  from  back  of  them. 
The  light  bag  was  small.  I  had  to  cram  unmercifully  to 
get  things  in;  but  I  couldn't  carry  that  heavy  suit-case. 
All  the  time  I  kept  listening  for  footsteps  going  down- 
stairs. Could  I  make  it  ?  Could  I  get  back  through  the 
hall  before  they  gathered  there  ?  I  flew  for  the  stockings 
and  pumps — and  knocked  down  a  bottle  of  scented  am- 
monia. The  smell  followed  me ;  it  was  all  over  the  place ; 
but  I  couldn't  stop.  Dress,  hat,  wrap,  shoes  and  stock- 
ings— had  I  everything  ?  Yes.  Hairpins !  J  grabbed  a 
box  of  them  from  the  dresser. 

As  soon  as  I  stepped  outside  the  door  I  heard  voices  be- 
low. The  front  way  was  cut  off.  I  took  the  back  stairs, 
got  as  far  as  the  turn  at  the  kitchen  door  and  reconnoitred. 
Addie's  place  had  been  filled  by  a  negro  man,  husband  of 
Julia,  the  laundress.  It  must  have  been  Orma's  afternoon 
out,  for  Julia  herself  was  helping  dish  dinner.  As  I  stood 
wondering  what  I'd  better  do,  Mrs.  Tipton  came  through 
the  swinging  doors  from  the  dining-room.  Without  seem- 
ing to  glance  toward  the  stairway,  she  spoke  instantly  in 
her  little  fluting  voice : 

"Julia,  go  in  and  finish  setting  the  table." 

"I  done  set "  the  negress  began. 

"Change  the  napkins." 

"I  done  changed "  Julia  tried  again,  but  her  mis- 
tress interrupted: 


A  CRY  FOR  HELP  249 

"Put  the  plain  satin  damask  ones  on.  Be  quick.  It's 
time  to  ring  the  bell." 

The  woman  went,  looking  bewildered.  Mrs.  Tipton 
turned  to  her  cook. 

"Everett,  serve  that  meat  on  a  larger  platter.  Come, 
reach  the  big  one  from  the  top  shelf  of  the  pantry." 

With  that  uncanny  intuition  of  hers,  she  had  cleared  my 
way.  As  soon  as  the  man's  back  was  turned,  while  Mrs. 
Tipton  herself  stood  in  the  pantry  door  looking  after  and 
directing  him,  I  slipped  through  the  kitchen  and  was  out. 

I  took  a  street  car  down — it  would  be  quicker  than  to 
walk.  Once  among  people  going  about  their  every-day 
affairs,  the  whole  thing  seemed  like  a  dream.  If  I  hadn't 
had  the  bag  in  my  hand,  I  should  have  believed  that  it 
was  one.  I  ran  from  the  car  into  the  station.  It  was  all 
quiet.  The  last  train  must  have  come  in  nearly  an  hour 
ago.  The  place  was  almost  deserted.  My  footsteps 
sounded  loud  as  I  crossed  to  the  women's  room.  The 
janitress,  at  work  in  a  little  cubby  where  brooms  and 
brushes  were  kept,  looked  out  at  me  and  then  went  on  with 
whatever  she  was  doing. 

The  women's  room  was  vacant.  No — a  heap  of  gar- 
ments on  a  chair  over  in  its  further  corner  stirred.  I 
went  halting  across.  It  was  a  woman,  sitting  humped, 
bowed,  sort  of  fallen-together-looking,  in  a  motor  cloak  and 
hood.  She  raised  her  head  slowly. 

I  can  feel  yet,  whenever  I  think  of  it,  the  shock  that 
went  over  me.  I  don't  know  what  I  had  expected.  I 
ought  to  have  been  prepared,  it  seemed.  Yet  I  came  near 
crying  out.  This  was  Eugenia  Chandler.  She  looked 
ten  years  older.  The  flesh  seemed  sunk  in  on  the  bones  of 
her  face,  withered,  somehow,  as  though  a  blast  of  destruc- 
tion had  blown  on  it;  her  carefully  tended  skin  was  a 
dirty  grey  with  big  black  circles  around  those  strange 
light  eyes  of  hers  that  fixed  themselves  on  what  I  had 
brought. 


250  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

"Is  everything  in  there  ?"  she  whispered,  without  using 
my  name. 

"Yes— I- 

"Don't  speak  so  loud.  Is  the  maid  noticing  ?  Did  she 
see  you  come  in  ?" 

"She  saw  me.  But  she's  not  looking  now;  she's  busy 
at  her  work." 

Miss  Chandler  came  up  a  little  out  of  her  chair.  While 
she  seemed  to  be  neither  standing  nor  sitting  she  took  the 
bag  from  me. 

"You  wait  here/'  she  breathed.  "Don't  stir.  I  won't 
be  long." 

She  moved  then,  going  forward  very  slowly,  and 
"scrooched,"  as  the  children  say.  I  stood  and  stared.  It 
was  like  a  nightmare.  Why  didn't  she  stand  up -and  walk  ? 
Wliat  was  the  matter  ? 

She  passed  behind  the  little  shuttered  door  which  would 
give  the  only  security  possible  in  such  a  place ;  I  heard  its 
fastenings  click.  Then,  for  a  moment,  in  the  open  space 
below  the  shutter — below  the  edge  of  the  big  motor  coat — 
I  saw  her  feet — bare — thrust  into  a  dirty  pair  of  pink, 
quilted-satin  bedroom  slippers. 

After  that  I  stood  rigid,  my  face  turned  away,  hearing 
the  sound  of  her  swift  movements  as  she  dressed  in  the 
things  I  had  brought.  I  couldn't  think.  I  didn't  want  to 
try.  I  only  ached  to  get  out  of  this  nightmare.  Suddenly 
the  little  quick  sounds  of  her  dressing  stopped  for  an  in- 
stant. There  was  a  listening  silence ;  then  came  her  voice, 
startled,  yet  guarded : 

"Callie !    Are  you  there  ?" 

"Right  here.    I  haven't  moved." 

"Well,  don't.     I'm  nearly  ready." 

Again  silence,  except  for  the  click  of  pump  heela  on 
the  floor,  the  continuous  rustle  of  clothing.  Then : 

"Callie !    Is  the  maid  looking  2" 

"No ;  she's  not  in  sight." 


A  CRY  FOR  HELP  251 

At  that  she  opened  the  door  and  came  out,  changed  be- 
yond recognition,  wearing  the  blue  taffeta,  carrying  the 
bag  (into  which  she  must  have  crowded  the  motor  coat  and 
hood),  her  motor  veil  tied  over  the  small  black  hat  so  that 
no  one  would  have  known  her  except  by  her  figure.  Even 
that  didn't  look  as  usual,  and  when  she  saw  me  noticing 
she  said,  whisperingly : 

"I  ought  to  have  told  you — underwear  and  corsets. 
Never  mind.  We'll  get — home." 

I  hadn't  brought  any  gloves,  either.  It  seemed  very 
strange  to  see  her  in  street  wear  with  bare  hands.  She 
drew  them  up  in  the  sleeves  of  the  wrap,  and  I  carried  the 
bag. 

I  hope  never  again  to  experience  the  feeling  that  grew 
stronger  and  stronger  in  me  as  this  muffled  figure  and  I 
left  the  women's  room.  I  gave  one  scared  glance  at  the 
janitress,  and  thought  she  seemed  surprised.  We  went 
across  the  main  room,  and  so  to  the  street. 

I  got  to  feeling  afraid  of  the  thing  that  walked  beside 
me.  I  couldn't  see  its  face.  It  didn't  speak.  Terror 
came  out  to  me  from  it.  It  went  along  feebly,  as  though 
it  had  hard  work  to  get  one  foot  before  the  other,  and  try- 
ing to  hide  its  bare  hands.  When  I  wanted  to  get  a  taxi 
there  came  but  the  single  word : 

"Street  car." 

We  went  and  stood  on  that  corner  where  I  had  waited 
in  the  dawn  with  Boy,  my  first  morning  in  San  Vicente. 
There  were  more  people  in  the  street  than  in  the  station, 
she  had  spoken  at  last ;  I  was  a  little  relieved.  Then,  as 
we  waited,  she  caught  my  arm  and  whispered : 

"My  stocking's  coming  down.     Stand  in  front  of  me." 

I  sheltered  her  with  my  own  skirts  and  the  bag.  We 
were  beside  the  woman  who  sells  papers  on  that  corner. 
Bending  down  so,  Miss  Chandler  must  have  read  a  head- 
line through  her  veil,  for  she  said,  as  she  straightened  up : 

"Buy  one.    Don't  look  at  it.    Eold  it.    Bring  it  along." 


252  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

Our  car  came.  I  helped  her  on.  The  conductor  was 
one  I  rode  with  often.  He  said  good-evening  as  I  paused 
to  pay  our  fares.  I  wished  he  hadn't  recognised  me,  but 
there  was  nothing  to  do  about  it.  She  sat  beside  me,  seem- 
ing scarcely  able  to  hold  up  her  head.  I  thought  she 
wasn't  noticing,  but  when  some  folks  got  on  a  few  blocks 
further  uptown,  she  whispered: 

"Gallic,  I  know  those  people.  They  know  me.  Sit 
forward  a  little.  Keep  between  us."  It  seemed  an  age 
before  we  got  to  our  stopping  place. 

There  was  the  good  old  Poinsettia  just  where  it  had 
been,  on  the  corner  of  Arbolado  and  Fortieth,  the  very 
porch  light — lavishly  lit  so  soon — the  shine  from  the  din- 
ing-room windows,  the  sounds  that  showed  people  were 
in  there  at  table,  helped  to  bring  a  sense  of  reality.  Why, 
this  was  really  Miss  Chandler  here  beside  me.  At  the 
moment  she  pulled  off  her  veil,  and  took  the  bag  from 
my  hand. 

"Mustn't  be  seen  together,"  she  motioned.  "Go  in 
ahead." 

"You  can't  carry  it."    She  was  already  swaying  on  her 
feet. 

"I  can.  Go  on.  Don't  look  back  Don't  seem  to  be 
with  me." 

I  went,  very  reluctantly.  She  staggered  after,  getting 
up  the  steps  one  at  a  time.  The  hall  was  empty.  There 
was  nobody  to  see  our  poor  little  comedy.  I  ran  back,  took 
the  bag  from  her  and  got  her  up  the  stairs  as  quickly  as 
I  could.  She  was  about  at  the  end  of  her  strength.  Now 
that  the  brace  of  facing  the  street  was  gone,  she  seemed  all 
relaxed,  as  though  she  would  fall.  I  was  afraid  to  let  go 
of  her  while  I  unlocked  the  room  door. 

Inside,  she  made  straight  for  the  couch  and  fell  on  it 
face  down,  just  as  she  was.  She  lay  there  breathing  in 
long,  shuddering  sighs  while  I  switched  on  the  lights  and 
got  her  hat  off.  She  was  ghastly — her  very  hair  looked 


A  CRY  FOR  HELP  253 

dead.  I  saw  she  was  in  a  chill,  and  ran  to  the  bathroom 
for  a  hot-water  bag.  When  I  took  off  the  shoes  and  stock- 
ings to  put  it  to  her  feet  I  could  have  cried  with  pity  to 
see  the  white  flesh  of  her  delicate  ankles  all  scratched  and 
broken,  a  great  swollen  bruise  on  one.  Under  her  suit 
there  was  nothing  but  a  silk  nightgown,  drabbled  to  the 
knees,  torn,  hitched  up  to  make  it  short  enough  not  to  show 
below  the  dress  edge.  As  I  worked  over  her  she  spoke  in- 
distinctly, her  mouth  against  the  pillow: 

"Lock  the  door." 

I  hurried  across  and  had  it  open  in  my  hand,  getting 
at  the  key,  when  her  voice  came  again : 

"Listen.  Do  you  hear  anything  down  there  ?  Is  it  all 
right?" 

There  were  the  sounds  usual  to  the  house  during  dinner ; 
that  was  all.  I  told  her  so  over  my  shoulder,  locked  the 
door,  and  then  she  said  in  a  stronger  tone  than  she  had  yet 
used, 

"The  paper." 

I  picked  it  up  from  the  table  where  I'd  thrown  it,  spread 
it  out  and  saw  in  a  great  black  headline  across  the  front 
page,  "ALVAH  J.  PENDLETON,  JR.,  AND  FINLEY 
BOGGS  UNDER  ARREST,"  with  a  sub-head,  "ANTI- 
VICE  WORKERS  MAKE  USE  OF  MANN  WHITE 
SLAVE  LAW  TO  TRAP  OFFENDERS." 

For  a  minute  I  didn't  see  anything  more — just  stared 
and  stared.  But  she  kept  calling,  "Well  ?  what  is  it  ?"  and 
I  went  over  and  held  it  out  to  her  at  arm's  length.  She 
wouldn't  touch  it,  but  caught  at  me  and  dragged  me  down 
a  little  so  she  could  see. 

"Read  it — read  it — read  it!"  she  groaned. 

There  wasn't  anything  else  to  do.  I  stood  there  sort  of 
cramped  over  in  such  a  way  that  she  might  have  seen  the 
words  if  she  had  chosen,  and  read  to  her  about  the  anti-vice 
campaign,  the  praises  of  our  active  prosecuting  attorney, 
and  how  he'd  got  the  best  grand  jury  that  San  Vicente 


254.  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

County  had  had  for  a  long  time,  and  the  biggest  thing 
they'd  done  so  far  was  to  trail  a  party  of  law-breakers  to 
the  Pendleton  camp  and  arrest  young  Pendleton  and  this 
other  man,  Boggs,  for  offences  under  the  Mann  White 
Slave  Act — taking  women  across  the  state  line  for  immoral 
purposes. 

She  would  have  it.  I  read  on  desperately  through  a  lot 
of  stuff  about  the  woman  companion  of  Boggs  being  held 
as  a  witness.  She  was  spoken  of  as  the  gay  wife  of  a  San 
Francisco  dentist,  already  co-respondent  in  a  notorious 
divorce  suit.  Miss  Chandler  held  to  my  wrist,  and  when- 
ever I'd  stop  she  shook  it.  Finally,  far  down  the  column, 
I  came  to  mention  of  the  other  woman — "Pendelton's 
woman,"  they  called  her.  She  had  got  away — mysteri- 
ously escaped  apparently  at  the  very  moment  of  the  raid. 

The  grasp  on  my  wrist — slim  and  cold,  like  a  metal 
clamp  — relaxed.  With  a  sigh  Miss  Chandler  sank  back 
on  her  pillow.  Her  lids  closed.  What  should  I  do  ?  Call 
someone  ?  Get  water  and  bathe  her  face  ?  As  I  hesitated 
her  eyes  flashed  open  for  a  moment  and  stared  up  in  mine. 

"Read  the  rest  of  it — all." 

I  began  again.  When  I  came  to  the  statement  that  the 
detectives  had  got  their  information  for  the  raid  through 
an  anonymous  letter  received  by  Mrs.  Boggs,  she  said, 
lying  there  with  those  closed  eyes, 

"Judge  Hoard." 

"Do  you  mean  that  he  wrote  it  ?"  I  asked. 

"Yes.  Or  had  it  written."  She  made  the  assertion  in  a 
strange,  tired  way  as  though  it  scarcely  concerned  her. 

I  hurried  on  through  the  details  of  Mrs.  Pendleton's 
being  in  a  nervous  collapse,  in  the  hands  of  her  physician, 
unable  to  see  anyone  from  the  newspapers.  Miss  Chandler 
never  opened  her  eyes,  but  I  knew  she  listened.  There  was 
one  paragraph  that  told  how  every  move  of  the  party  had 
been  watched  from  the  first,  how  it  was  known  that  they 
came  in  with  their  Chinese  cook  and  chauffeur  from  San 


A  CRY  FOR  HELP  255 

Francisco  two  days  before  the  raid,  kept  indoors  with  the 
blinds  down  in  the  daytime  and  lit  up  and  held  high  jinks 
at  night,  and  on  the  night  of  the  raid  the  detectives  were 
hidden  in  the  brush  close  around  the  camp  from  dark  till 
the  time  they  made  the  arrest.  It  brought  from  her  the 
shuddering  sob,  "Oh,  God!"  That  was  all.  I  tried  to 
stop  then,  but  she  just  reached  up  and  touched  the  paper, 
and  I  knew  I  had  to  go  on. 

She  was  stung  into  some  sort  of  life  when  she  heard 
about  the  chauffeur  being  in  the  pay  of  the  detectives.  He 
had  kept  in  close  touch  with  them  by  'phone,  watched  the 
garage  so  that  there  could  be  no  get-away  in  the  machine, 
and  was  posted  at  the  back  door  while  two  others  forced 
the  front  door. 

"The  hound !  I  never  trusted  him,"  she  whispered,  and 
lay  awhile  looking  straight  before  her. 

I  didn't  move.     The  room  was  very  quiet. 

"Premonitions,"  she  said  abruptly.  "I  was  sick  all  the 
evening — couldn't  eat  at  dinner.  I  must  have  felt  those 
devils  out  there  in  the  bushes.  I  lay  and  listened  to  the 
others  at  their  singing,  and  ragging  to  the  phonograph. 
Then,  afterward — in  the  dark — broad  awake — hour  after 
hour — waiting  for  something.  When  it  came,  I  jumped — 
got  hold  of  my  slippers — motor  cloak — hood.  Purse — 
under  my  pillow.  They  hammered  the  front  door.  Chen 
So  was  coming  from  his  room  by  the  kitchen — to  let  them 
in.  I  ran  past  in  the  hall,  dragging  the  coat  on.  He  had  a 
candle.  He  saw  me." 

She  straightened  herself  on  the  couch.  Her  feet  were 
beginning  to  get  warm.  The  icy  tension  was  relaxed. 

"God  bless  that  old  Chinaman,"  she  whispered.  "He's 
a  man !  He  looked  at  me  with  a  perfectly  wooden  face, 
and  said,  'I  think  one  p'leece  he  stand  at  back  door. 
Mebbe  you  go  cellar  way  out.  That  way,  p'leece  he  not 
see." 

"I  was  on  the  cellar  stairs  when  the  detectives  went  in. 


256  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

I  heard  the  men  over  my  head  stamping  and  cursing,  and 
that  woman  screaming.  I  ran  up  the  side  steps  and 
stumbled  out  among  some  bushes.  I  was  so  near  the  back 
door  I  could  see  the  man  standing  there.  I  dropped  to  my 
knees  and  crawled  away." 

She  had  crawled  away  on  hands  and  knees,  in  her  night- 
gown, a  motor  coat  and  bedroom  slippers.  Through  what 
had  those  slippers  gone  before  I  saw  them  on  her  bare  feet 
there  in  the  station  ?  What  fierce  courage  had  brought  her 
in  such  a  rig,  from  the  Oregon  mountains  to  lie  here  on  her 
couch  in  San  Vicente,  nearly  dead,  to  be  sure,  but  here — 
safe?  The  chill  had  left  her.  Her  cheeks  began  to 
flush  and  her  eyes  to  gleam  with  fever.  She  raised 
herself  on  her  elbow,  and,  catching  at  my  skirts,  said, 
bitterly : 

"This  is  Judge  Hoard's  doing — from  first  to  last.  He 
thinks  he's  got  me — that  now,  if  I  attempt  to  tell  the  truth 
about  him — I'll  be  discredited.  Oh,  when  I  think  of  it,  I 
could  tear  him  to  pieces  with  my  fingers !" 

Her  violence  scared  me.  Certainly  this  was  a  sick 
woman.  Oughtn't  she  to  have  a  doctor  ?  Dinner  was  over. 
People  were  in  the  halls,  but  Miss  Chandler  didn't  mod- 
erate her  tone;  she  spoke  loud.  I  was  at  my  wits'  end, 
hungry  and  worn  out  myself. 

"You  must  be  starved,"  I  tried  to  divert  her  attention. 
"Let  me  get  you  something  to  eat." 

She  acted  as  if  she  hadn't  heard.  I  thought  I'd  go  any- 
how and  get  her  something,  but  when  I  opened  the  inner 
door  there  came  a  little  tapping  on  the  outer  one,  and  there 
stood  Mrs.  Tipton  with  a  covered  tray,  as  steady  a  light 
in  those  brown  eyes  of  hers  as  though  we'd  sent  for  her 
in  the  most  ordinary  way. 

She  walked  in  without  the  least  explanation  or  question, 
set  her  tray  on  a  stand,  and  while  I  locked  the  door  she  was 
beside  Miss  Chandler,  laying  hands  on  her,  feeling  her 
forehead  with  the  born  nurse's  practised  touch. 


A  CRY  FOR  HELP  257 

"Should  we  send  for  a  doctor?"  I  whispered  at  her 
shoulder.  But  Miss  Chandler  heard  and  flamed  out  at  me, 

"Are  you  crazy  ?  I  don't  need  anything  but  a  dose  of 
morphine — and  my  dinner." 

I  looked  across  at  Mrs.  Tipton  and  raised  my  eyebrows 
inquiringly.  She  nodded. 

"Get  it  for  her,  if  you  know  where  it  is."  And  when  I 
brought  the  vial  of  tablets  from  the  bathroom  medicine 
closet,  she  took  it  to  the  light  and  read  the  label,  with  Miss 
Chandler  fretting  at  her, 

"It's  all  right.  I'm  used  to  it.  I  take  one  when  I  can't 
sleep." 

"You  run  down  stairs  and  eat  your  own  dinner,  Mrs. 
Baird."  Mrs.  Tipton,  having  administered  the  tablet,  was 
deftly  spreading  out  the  tray,  and  I  saw  from  the  look  on 
Miss  Chandler's  face  that  she  was  going  to  eat.  "Run 
along.  Julia  will  give  you  something.  Come  back  as  soon 
as  you're  through." 

I  went  then.  Coming  out  of  that  room  was  like  stepping 
from  one  world  to  another.  There  were  the  pleasant, 
mildly  festive  sounds  of  an  evening  at  bridge  being  ar- 
ranged. A  door  at  the  further  end  of  the  hall  was  open, 
and  Miss  Creevey  called  to  Mrs.  Tutt  that  she  was  bring- 
ing her  new  cards.  Probably  no  one  knew  yet  of  Miss 
Chandler's  coming,  but  I  dodged  down  the  back  stairs  so 
as  to  have  to  answer  no  questions. 

In  the  kitchen  Everett  and  his  wife  were  at  their  meal, 
but  they  got  up  with  that  beautiful,  smiling  readiness 
that  often  astonishes  me  in  servants,  and  brought  mine 
to  me  in  the  dining-room.  Julia  at  once  agreed  to  go  up 
and  get  Boy  as  soon  as  she  could  and  put  him  to  bed  for 
me.  She  would  have  no  trouble.  He  liked  her.  The 
hot  food  was  comforting.  I  ate  with  unexpected  ap- 
petite. 

Back  in  the  room  once  more,  I  found  Mrs.  Tipton  had 
Miss  Chandler  all  straightened  up,  put  into  a  fresh  gown, 


I 

258  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

lying  in  her  bed,  and  was  just  finishing  the  braiding  of 
her  hair. 

"I'm  glad  you  were  so  quick,"  she  chirped,  composedly. 
"I'll  have  to  go  downstairs  for  half  an  hour.  Then  I'll 
relieve  you."  She  packed  her  tray  of  emptied  dishes 
deftly.  "Did  you  like  those  timbales  so  well  ?"  she  cooed 
to  the  patient.  "I'll  have  Everett  make  them  for  you 
again." 

With  her  free  hand  she  straightened  the  edge  of  Miss 
Chandler's  pillows,  then  touched  my  shoulder  so  that  I 
went  with  her  to  the  door.  There  she  spoke  to  me  in  a 
lowered  tone  as  I  was  letting  her  out. 

"Don't  let  her  take  another  of  the  tablets.  A  quarter 
grain  is  all  she  ought  to  have.  Keep  her  as  quiet  as  you 
can.  If  she  gets  started  talking  the  morphine  will  stimu- 
late instead  of  putting  her  to  sleep.  It's  better  for  her  not 
to  talk." 

In  this  Virginia  lady's  colourless,  detached  manner 
there  was  neither  curiosity  nor  indifference ;  it  was  simply 
and  marvellously  commonplace.  I  went  back  and  sat  down 
by  Miss  Chandler's  bed.  The  minute  we  were  alone  she 
began  to  speak,  rapidly  and  strongly,  like  a  talking  mech- 
anism wound  up  to  go  just  so  long,  a  thing  that  couldn't  be 
etopped  except  by  violence. 

"Callie — listen — Callie !  I  went  on  my  hands  and  knees 
till  I  got  out  of  that  oak  thicket.  They  were  ransacking  the 
house  for  me — I  could  hear  them.  I  climbed  the  fence 
and  ran.  Up  the  canyon — their  machine  was  in  the  road. 
I  stumbled  and  fell.  I  fell  and  rolled.  I  got  into  a  wood- 
road  and  ran  and  ran.  I  don't  know  how  far.  You  can't 
tell — running  in  the  dark  that  way.  But  I  thought  I'd 
gone  miles  when  I  heard  bells  and  saw  a  light.  A  dog 
barked.  It  was  a  Spanish  wood  wagon  from  up  in  the 
hills,  going  across  the  range  to  the  hotel — so  I  knew  it 
must  be  nearly  morning." 

"Mrs.  Tipton  said  you  oughtn't  to  talk,  dear."    I  drew 


A  CRY  FOR  HELP  259 

the  covers  smooth.  "Could  you  just  try  to  close  your  eyes 
now  ?"  The  stare  of  them  made  my  heart  ache. 

"No.  I  want  to  tell  you  this.  I'll  sleep  afterward.  The 
dog  found  me.  It  found  me ;  so  I  thought  I  might  as  well 
get  the  boy  to  take  me  to  the  railroad.  There  couldn't  be 
much  risk.  He  was  a  stupid  Portuguese,  with  hardly  any 
English.  He  let  me  climb  up  to  the  high  seat  beside  him ; 
but  when  we  got  to  the  Meaghers  highway  he  began  slew- 
ing his  horses  to  go  north.  That  would  take  us  back  past 
the  camp.  'Stop/  I  said,  and  when  he  wouldn't,  'I'll  give 
you  a  hundred  dollars  to  take  me  down  to  the  station.' 

"I  oughtn't  to  have  offered  so  much.  It  just  scared  him. 
He  pulled  his  team  back  hard.  'Get  down  off  my  wagon,' 
he  said,  and  I  had  to  get  down — he  would  have  shoved  me 
off.  I  almost  believe  he  would  have  struck  me.  While  his 
four  horses  were  all  across  the  road  and  I  was  trying  to 
argue,  we  heard  the  sound  of  a  machine,  and  then  a 
roadster  came  around  the  turn,  its  lights  full  on  me ! 

"I  thought  the  end  had  come,  yet  the  moment  the  man 
spoke  and  asked,  'Is  anything  the  matter  ?  Have  you  had 
an  accident,  Madam  ?'  I  knew  he  wasn't  one  of  the  detec- 
tives. The  Portuguese  wagon-driver  would  have  been 
the  safe  one,  if  I  could  have  got  him  to  take  me  to  the 
station.  He  hadn't  English  enough  to  tell  anything;  but 
he  whipped  up  and  left  me  there  face  to  face  with  this  man 
in  the  roadster." 

Poor  thing,  I  was  glad  then  she  had  made  me  read  the 
paper.  She  hadn't  seen  where,  on  the  second  page,  there 
was  a  later  dispatch  telling  how  the  detectives  had  rounded 
up  the  driver  of  a  wood  wagon  who  admitted  that  he  had 
carried  the  mysterious  woman  some  distance  and  been 
offered  a  hundred  dollars  to  take  her  to  the  station ! 

"Callie — have  I  already  told  you  about  this  man  that 
gave  me  the  lift  in  his  machine?  Did  I  mention  him 
before?  He  said  he  knew  you.  Called  you  Mrs.  Oliver 
Baird." 


260  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

"Yes — yes."  There  would  be  neighbours  who  remem- 
bered me. 

"He  was  coming  from  the  hotel  back  there ;  he'd  started 
at  four  o'clock  so  as  to  make  the  early  train  over  at  Stan- 
leyton.  He  didn't  ask  any  questions.  He  would  take  me  to 
the  station  with  him.  I  thought  the  worst  of  it  was  over. 
That  was  when  we  talked  about  you.  He  hadn't  known 
but  that  you  were  living  at  Meagners.  I  told  him  you  were 
in  San  Vicente,  in  the  same  house  with  me.  He  seemed  to 
have  been  away  a  good  while,  and  not  to  remember  the 
roads  very  well.  We  saw  a  lantern  and  a  man  down  in  a 
cow  lot  at  his  milking,  and  he  left  me  in  the  auto  while  he 
went  to  inquire." 

Somehow  I  knew  what  was  coming. 

"Oliver  Baird — that's  your  husband's  name,  isn't  it?" 
I  nodded. 

"That  was  the  man  milking.  He  came  to  the  fence,  and 
held  up  his  lantern  and  talked.  I  saw  both  their  faces. 
He  pointed,  explaining  about  the  route.  I  heard,  coming 
on  the  road  above,  the  racket  of  a  motorcycle,  and  a  car 
with  a  Klaxon  horn.  I  scrambled  out  of  the  auto,  got 
through  the  fence  and  was  in  a  little  shed,  burrowing  down 
behind  some  hay,  when  the  men  came  up — first  the  one  on 
the  motorcycle,  then  two  others,  in  the  car,  with  Louis,  the 
chauffeur,  driving." 

Her  voice  had  been  strong,  rapid,  monotonous !  now  it 
broke  with  a  kind  of  shudder  and  she  was  silent  for  a  mo- 
ment, evidently  going  back  over  that  scene. 

"What  beasts  such  men  are!"  she  burst  out  finally. 
"How  they  relished  their  job !  How  they  enjoyed  telling 
of  the  arrests  they'd  made  and  the  woman  they  were  after ! 
She  was  wanted  in  a  white  slave  case — as  a  witness.  I  had 
my  eye  at  a  chink  in  the  shed  wall ;  it  chanced  that  I  could 
see  the  face  of  the  gentleman  who  had  brought  me  in  the 
roadster.  I  wondered  if  he'd  glance  toward  his  machine 
in  such  a  way  as  to  make  them  suspicious.  He  didn't.  He 


A  CRY  FOR  HELP  261 

let  them  do  the  talking.  He  kept  still  while  Baird  told 
them  he  hadn't  seen  or  heard  of  the  party  they  were  after. 
They  didn't  trust  the  silent  man.  When  he  came  back  to 
the  road,  they  followed.  They  searched  his  roadster. 
They  apologised — said  the  woman  might  have  slipped  un- 
der the  rugs  while  his  back  was  turned — but  when  he  drove 
away  the  man  on  the  motorcycle  followed  him  close,  while 
the  two  others  finally  went  off  toward  the  Meaghers  sta- 
tion." 

She  closed  her  eyes  at  last.  I  was  edging  out  of  my 
chair  when  she  opened  them  and  asked, 

"Gallic — would  you  mind  getting  me  some  water  ?" 

I  brought  the  glass,  and  she  drank,  almost  smiling  as  she 
looked  up  over  the  tumbler  rim  to  say, 

"Your  husband  gave  me  a  drink  out  of  one  of  the  milk 
bottles  before  daylight  this  morning.  I  went  down  to  the 
railroad  in  his  wagon — on  the  seat  beside  him.  Isn't  that 
queer  ?" 

Queer !  I  set  the  glass  back  and  looked  at  her,  trying  to 
get  the  grotesque  fact  through  my  head  that  she  had  been, 
at  dawn  this  morning,  out  in  the  cow  lot  on  the  ranch,  with 
Oliver ! 

"I  had  to  ask  him  for  help,"  she  went  on.  "He  was  my 
last  hope.  I  didn't  say  I  was  the  woman  they  were  after, 
and  he  didn't  mention  their  being  after  anyone.  I  had 
waited  in  the  shed,  afraid,  till  he  was  through  milking,  and 
it  was  when  we  were  going  down  the  hill  that  he  spoke, 
'Stanleyton  and  Meaghers  are  both  watched,'  and  offered 
to  take  me  on  to  the  junction  if  I'd  wait  at  somebody-or- 
other's  store  till  he  came  back.  'Not  at  any  house,'  I  said. 
I  waited  in  some  bushes  at  the  edge  of  a  field  while  he  went 
on  and  shipped  the  milk.  I  thought  probably  he'd  not 
come  back.  Why  should  he  ?  It  was  getting  light.  And 
there  I  was  skulking  in  the  bushes  in  that  open  field,  like  a 
rat  in  a  trap.  If  he  didn't  come — if  he  didn't  come — I'd 
better  have  stayed  and  faced  them  at  the  front  door.  O  God, 


262  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

to  fail  after  all  I'd  gone  through !  I  hadn't  even  anything 
to  kill  myself  with — and  if  I'd  had  it — to  die  there — dis- 
graced  " 

"But  you're  all  right  now,"  I  said,  and  coaxed  her. 
"Don't  talk  any  more  about  it.  You  must  go  to  sleep." 

"In  a  minute,"  she  murmured.  "But  he  did  come  back. 
He  came  back — "  and  she  went  on  feverishly  to  tell  me  all 
about  the  miserable  slow  train  she  got  at  the  Junction,  the 
hours  of  waiting  at  Cascade,  the  changing  cars,  the  final 
securing  of  a  Pullman  and  being  able  to  pass  for  a  sick 
woman  who  had  lost  her  luggage.  Mrs.  Tipton  came  back 
while  we  were  in  the  thick  of  it,  and  put  a  stop  to  the  talk- 
ing. 

I  got  up  to  say  good-night,  and  then  I  had  to  tell  Miss 
Chandler  that  I  was  leaving  for  Hopfields  early  next 
morning,  to  be  gone  at  least  six  weeks. 

"Well — that's  better,"  she  agreed  on  a  sort  of  falling 
note.  And  then :  "Poor  Callie !" 

She  threw  out  a  hand  and  caught  mine.  For  awhile  she 
lay  and  looked  at  me.  There  were  no  apologies  or  explana- 
tions, but  I  saw  how  she  felt. 

She  was  still  holding  onto  my  fingers,  her  eyes  on  mine, 
detaining  me,  as  Mrs.  Tipton  went  into  the  bathroom  to 
renew  the  hot-water  bottle. 

"That  man  that  helped  me  away  in  his  auto,"  she  re- 
peated vaguely,  "did  I  tell  you  his  name  ?" 

"No." 

"He  gave  it  to  the  detectives.  It  was  Stanley — Philip 
Stanley." 


CHAPTEE  XVII 

LAS   PALMAS   HOP   RANCH 

IT'S  strange  how  we  agree  that  the  things  we  can  see  and 
hear  and  touch  are  real,  and  call  the  invisibles  that 
take  hold  of  our  feelings  imaginary.  When  Miss  Chand- 
ler, lying  there  on  the  bed  in  her  room,  holding  my  hand 
for  good-bye,  told  me  casually  that  just  the  night  before 
she  had  seen  Philip — sat  beside  him,  talked  to  him,  spoken 
my  name  to  him — something  somewhere  swung  open  like 
a  door,  and  the  past  marched  on  me.  A  door — it  was  a 
floodgate !  What  came  in  the  tide  that  it  let  loose  threat- 
ened to  drown  out  the  present. 

Since  that  day  of  parting  in  the  side  yard  of  his  father's 
house,  when  I  felt  Philip  had  definitely  shut  me  out,  my 
struggle  had  been  always  to  forget,  unless  I  could  think  of 
him  as  of  any  other  childhood  friend.  When  my  first 
frantic  rebellion  and  longing  began  to  die  down  into  the 
dull  ache  that  is  known  as  resignation,  it  seemed  that  I 
might  accomplish  this.  And  now  Miss  Chandler,  staring 
at  me  from  the  pillow,  babbling  because  the  relief  and  the 
dose  of  medicine  she'd  had  made  her  want  to  talk,  told  me 
of  some  stranger  who  had  been  kind  to  her,  adding  as  an 
unimportant  detail  that  it  was  Philip  Stanley.  And  with 
the  knowledge  that  he  had  been  last  night  in  the  road  in 
front  of  our  ranch  and  got  his  first  word  of  me  from  a  dis- 
graced fugitive,  a  woman  in  her  shameful  position,  the 
pang  that  went  through  me  was  as  disproportionate,  as 
absurd,  as  the  supersensitiveness  of  the  very  young  girl 
who  would  almost  rather  die  than  appear  at  a  disadvantage 
before  her  sweetheart ! 

Well — I  couldn't  set  out  on  that  sort  of  thing  at  this 
age.  Philip  had  passed,  so  far  as  I  was  concerned,  into 

263 


264.  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

the  region  of  mystery,  the  world  of  the  unguessed,  one  of 
the  things  that  will  never  be  understood,  and  therefore 
never  forgotten;  yet  before  he  went  he  had  so  wrung  my 
heart  that  mere  common  sense  put  me  on  the  defensive 
against  his  very  memory.  Instinctively  I  got  out  of  Miss 
Chandler's  room  and  up  to  Boyce  as  quickly  as  I  could. 
Here  was  one  thing  right  in  my  life,  anyhow.  I  switched 
on  the  lights  and  stood  looking  down  on  him  asleep  there. 

It  was  a  blankety,  foggy,  hot  August  night;  I  felt 
oppressed,  and  finally  went  to  the  window  and  tried  to 
push  it  a  little  wider  open.  Down  yonder  in  the  dark  of 
the  back  yard  was  Mr.  Dale's  bungalow — closed,  black, 
empty.  Anything  in  my  life  that  concerned  him  was  just 
like  that,  too — closed,  black,  empty.  I  turned  back  to  the 
lighted  room,  to  Boy  in  his  blue  silk  pajamas,  made  over 
from  the  very  suit  I  had  seen  one  night  on  the  sleeping 
porch  at  Harvey  Watkins's  house.  I  smoothed  the  little 
breast  pocket  which  I  had  noticed  as  the  cut-and-basted 
garments  lay  in  Dele's  work-basket.  Dele  had  meant  well, 
in  her  way;  and  Harvey  had  meant  ill  enough  in  his — 
and  both  of  them  were  as  completely  nothing  to  me  as 
though  they  had  never  existed.  On  my  table,  packed  up  to 
be  left  behind,  for  use  when  I  came  back  ready  to  try  for 
another  job,  were  some  notebooks  and  office  things — stuff 
I  had  acquired  with  my  new  trade.  It  might  have  seemed 
that  they,  concerning  the  future  as  they  did,  would  have 
had  some  substance,  some  reality ;  but  at  that  moment  they 
were  as  dreamy  and  unreal  as  the  rest. 

Boy  mumbled  a  word  in  his  sleep,  threw  his  doubled 
fists  up  on  the  pillow  and  yawned,  squirming  away  from 
the  light.  I  stooped  and  kissed  his  little  open  mouth.  To- 
morrow he  and  I  would  be  starting  out  together.  I  must 
go  to  bed  and  get  some  rest  like  a  sensible  person. 

Boy  and  I  had  to  get  up  while  all  the  rest  of  the  house, 
except  the  kitchen,  was  asleep;  but  there  was  no  trouble 
with  him  after  I  mentioned  "the  cars."  Orma  served  our 


LAS  PALMAS  HOP  RANCH  265 

breakfast  and  had  a  big  lunch  already  put  up  for  us, 
explaining, 

"The  Mrs.  told  me  to.  She's  in  bed  now,  trying  to  get 
a  little  sleep.  Said  she  was  up  nearly  all  night — toothache 
or  something.  Say,  Miss  Chandler's  home." 

I  glanced  up  at  her  unconscious  face;  no,  she  hadn't 
meant  to  imply  a  connection  between  the  two  statements. 

"Oh,  yes,"  I  said  before  I  thought. 

"How'd  you  know?"  Orma  looked  at  me  in  surprise. 
"She  got  in  at  three  o'clock  this  morning,  the  Mrs.  said." 

"I  was  awake  a  good  deal  in  the  night  myself,"  I 
evaded. 

"  'Fraid  you'd  miss  your  train,"  Orma  was  sympathetic. 
"I'm  always  that  way.  You've  got  plenty  of  time.  Say, 
I  wish  you'd  look  what's  in  this  morning's  'Examiner' — " 

"I  saw  it  in  the  'Clarion'  last  night,"  I  put  in  hastily  as 
she  turned  to  the  sideboard  where  the  San  Francisco 
papers  lay.  From  where  I  sat  my  eye  caught  the  heavy- 
faced  type— MANN  WHITE  SLAVE " 

"Let's  go  to  the  cars  now,"  Boyce  was  fed,  ready  to  play 
the  man's  part  of  hustling  everybody  along. 

It  was  "All  right,  dear;  we're  off.  Good-bye,  Orma — 
tell  them  all  good-bye  again" — and  I  was  relieved  to  be  at 
last  out  in  the  cool,  morning  street,  the  poor  old  Poinsettia 
with  its  festering  secret  behind  me,  something  new  and 
clean — if  it  was  only  hop  picking — ahead.  I  could  even 
share  Boyce's  enthusiasm  for  "the  cars." 

I  didn't  have  to  go  down  to  the  central  station ;  the  little 
branch  line  to  Corinth  may  be  picked  up  at  several  points 
in  San  Vicente  and  its  suburbs.  We  left  from  the  shed 
three  blocks  back  of  the  house.  I  gave  Boyce  the  window- 
seat,  and,  with  most  of  him  waving  outside  in  splendid 
excitement,  while  I  hung  on  to  the  slack  of  his  clothes,  we 
got  started.  As  the  little  local  train  joggled  along,  and 
stopped  at  its  stations,  as  I  held  automatically  to  the  tail  of 
Boyce's  blouse,  or  as  auomatically  answered  the  occasional 


266  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

questions  he  turned  to  shout  at  me,  I  began  to  drift  back 
into  old  remembrance.  Little  things  I  hadn't  thought  of 
for  years  came  to  me  there,  things  that  had  been  said  about 
dresses  I  had  worn,  places  I  had  gone,  the  very  look  of  the 
weeds  by  the  pathside  on  certain  evenings  walking  home 
from  school.  I  lost  track  of  where  I  was  and  woke  with  a 
jerk  when  the  conductor  demanded  my  ticket.  He  must 
have  been  used  to  it,  for  he  merely  repeated  the  demand, 
chucked  Boyce  under  the  chin,  said  it  wouldn't  be  long 
until  I'd  be  paying  fare  for  him,  and  went  on. 

Despite  the  motion  of  the  train,  the  heat  soon  began  to 
be  oppressive.  Our  car  was  full  of  folks  going  up  to  pick 
hops,  and  of  talk  about  it.  They  called  to  each  other  back 
and  forth,  things  related  to  the  work,  comparing  notes  of 
the  ranches  on  which  they  had  picked  the  year  before,  or 
the  year  before  that.  Some  of  them  were  rather  glum  over 
the  prospect  at  Las  Palmas,  grumbling  that  they'd  heard 
they'd  already  more  pickers  than  would  be  needed. 

I  listened,  but  asked  no  questions,  and  didn't  join  in  the 
talk  at  all.  What  would  have  been  the  use  ?  I  must  go  on 
now ;  I  couldn't  go  back.  If  I  felt  any  doubt  on  the  point, 
I  had  but  to  glance  across  where  in  the  seat  opposite  me 
they  were  passing  around  the  "Examiner"  that  Orma  had 
offered  me  with  my  breakfast,  enjoying,  as  people  do,  the 
scandalous  details  of  the  Boggs-Pendleton  case.  Oh,  no, 
no,  I  must  get  away  from  San  Vicente.  Working  folks 
always  do  a  great  deal  of  grumbling  about  a  job  like  hop- 
picking,  I  said  to  myself,  and  if  others  could  stand  it  Boy 
and  I  could,  for  awhile. 

As  we  ran  into  the  outskirts  of  Corinth,  Boy  waved  and 
squirmed  as  though  he  would  go  entirely  through  the  win- 
dow. I  clutched  his  blouse-tail  tight  while  he  shouted  back 
to  me, 

"Now,  Muwer — now — we're  coming  to  Aunt  Emma's 
house !  Watch,  and  you'll  see  it." 

When  we  did  pass  the  place  where  Mrs.  Eccles's  daugh- 


LAS  PALMAS  HOP  RANCH       267 

ter  lived  he  was  dreadfully  disappointed  because  there  was 
no  calf  in  the  side  yard,  as  there  always  had  been  when  he 
was  there.  He  landed  back  on  the  seat  against  me  with  a 
thump,  and  jolted  out, 

"Where  you  s'pose  it's  gone?  What  you  s'pose  those 
folks  have  done  with  that  calf  ?" 

The  only  suggestion  that  came  to  my  mind — a  butcher 
— wouldn't  have  pleased  Boy. 

"It  was  a  red  calf,  Muvver,"  he  explained.  "It  would 
dest  shake  its  head  and  holler  'Maah' !  It  chased  me ; 
Aunt  Emma  said  it  was  dest  playful." 

"Well,  I  expect  it's  gone  away  somewhere  to  play  with 
other  little  calves,"  I  offered,  as  I  wiped  his  earnest,  per- 
spiring face.  "Come,  dear — here's  where  we  get  off." 

The  train  stopped ;  all  those  who  were  pickers  piled  out, 
Boy  and  I  with-  the  rest.  Bundles  of  bedding  were  thrown 
from  the  baggage  car.  It  was  sweltering.  We  were  sticky, 
and  gritty  with  dust.  The  burning  heat  of  the  boards  in 
the  platform  scorched  through  the  thin  soles  of  my  shoes. 

The  Hopfields  district  lies  in  a  valley  so  broad  that  the 
saw-tooth  mountains  on  one  side  and  the  far-away  buttes 
on  the  other,  make  a  merely  irregular  horizon.  Between 
them  is  a  flat,  or  only  slightly  rolling  country  now  at  the 
height  of  its  dry  season.  Corinth,  a  supply  town  for  the 
great  hop  ranches  about,  had  been  a  village  fifty  years  ago, 
when  they  built  in  the  Spanish  fashion,  of  grey  stone,  with 
two-story  porches  that  arcaded  the  sidewalks.  Now  that 
the  railroad  had  come  in,  and  the  hop  business,  these  few 
old  houses  looked  out  of  place  among  the  great  square 
frame  store  buildings  and  preftty  little  bungalows. 
Corinth  was  half  asleep  and  half  awake;  the  old  part 
drowsing  in  the  sun,  the  new  elbowing  it.  Everything 
looked  breathless  and  parched.  This  was  the  rush  time  of 
the  year  when  the  normal  village  and  ranch  life  was  over- 
flowed with  a  motley,  despised  tide  of  seasonal  workers. 
I  knew  enough  about  such  things  to  understand  the  posi- 


268  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

tion  I  was  taking  in  life  when  I  went  with  the  hop-pickers. 
The  road  that  ran  by  the  station  platform  was  ankle  deep 
in  yellow  dust.  The  train  went  on  and  left  that  platform 
full  of  people  and  baggage. 

There  were  wagons,  one  of  them  backed  up  to  the  boards 
had  the  name  Las  Palmas  painted  on  it.  It  was  a  good 
team  with  a  negro  driver.  Down  at  the  other  end  of  the 
platform  the  pickers,  noisy  and  perspiring,  were  getting 
their  rolls,  shouldering  them  up  and  tramping  away  in  the 
heat.  There  were  women  and  children  among  them,  but 
I  couldn't  go  like  that.  I'd  see  if  I  couldn't  get  my  stuff 
taken  out  in  that  Las  Palmas  wagon.  I  had  to  leave  Boy 
in  the  broiling  sun  with  my  suit-case  while  I  went  to  ask. 
I  was  at  the  pile  of  luggage  and  thought  I'd  got  sight  of 
my  own  sack  when  a  familiar  voice  sang  out,  "Don't  tell 
me  this  is  the  little  lady  from  the  Red  Leaf  Inn  ?" 

It  was  the  name  Joe  Ed  Tipton  sometimes  gave  the 
Poinsettia,  and  there  was  Joe  Ed  himself,  his  face  peeling 
with  new  sunburn,  as  shabby  and  irresponsible  looking  as 
anyone  in  sight. 

"Oh,  Joe  Ed,"  I  cried,  "it's  awfully  good  to  see  you !  I 
wonder  if  you  could  help  me  get  my  stuff  out  here.  I 
want  to  find  if  they'll  take  it  over  in  the  Las  Palmas 
wagon." 

"Sure !"  he  cried  promptly,  though  he  looked  a  bit  puz- 
zled. "I'm  from  Las  Palmas  myself.  I'm  captain  of  that 
wagon  to-day — in  to  see  about  some  freight.  You  going  up 
to  our  ranch?  Well,  you  don't  want  to  do  much  fooling 
around  in  the  hotness  of  this  heat.  Let's  get  into  the  sta- 
tion, and  I'll  'phone  and  tell  the  folks  you're  here.  It's  a 
wonder  they  wouldn't  meet  you — they  send  the  car  over 
for  guests.  You  couldn't  walk  it." 

"Wait,  Joe,"  I  pulled  back  as  he  drew  me  toward  the 
door,  "I  don't  know  the  folks  at  Las  Palmas;  I'm  not  a 
visitor.  I  came  here  to  pick  hops,  and  I've  got  to  see  about 
my  bedding  roll." 


LAS  PALMAS  HOP  RANCH  269 

"Heh — you — "  Joe  Ed  whirled  on  me  in  blank  amaze- 
ment— ""you're  joking."  He  studied  my  face. 

"No,  if  there's  any  joke  it's  on  me,"  I  said.  "My  outfit 
is  in  one  of  those  bundles  there.  I've  come  to  stay." 

He  stood  a  moment  in  a  sort  of  slacked  attitude,  hands 
deep  in  pockets,  while  the  crowd  jostled  us.  I  saw  now 
that  he  was  thinner  than  I  had  ever  known  him — not  much 
left  of  him  but  skin  and  bone  and  those  high  spirits  that 
nothing  seemed  to  quench.  Suddenly  he  threw  up  his 
head  with  a  laugh,  demanding, 

"Why  not  ?  It's  all  in  a  lifetime.  What  would  you  be 
doing  anyhow  but  the  most  unlikely  thing  in  the  world? 
and  getting  by  with  it,  too.  Gimme  your  check." 

He  plunged  at  the  pile  of  baggage,  and  discovered  mine 
with  a  shout, 

"If  she  ain't  got  the  same  old  outfit  we  took  to  the 
Yosemite !  Look  who's  here,  Bice,"  he  spoke  to  the  negro 
driver.  "Here's  the  little  lady  that  held  up  our  train  at 
Meaghers  last  year." 

"Why,  how  do  you  do,  Bice?"  I  said.  The  big  black 
man  on  the  wagon  seat  turned  and  touched  his  straw  hat  to 
me,  then,  looking  above  the  heads  of  the  crowd  to  where 
Boy  stood  by  my  suit-case,  asked,  "Won't  you  and  the  little 
gentleman  ride  over  with  us  ?" 

"Sure  they  will,"  said  Joe,  who  had  got  the  bedding  roll 
into  the  wagon.  As  he  and  I  went  down  the  platform  for 
Boy,  he  added,  jerking  his  head  a  little  backward  toward 
the  wagon  and  its  driver,  "I  brought  the  poor  old  ginny 
along  with  me  to  the  ranch  to  get  him  away  from  the  booze. 
I  have  him  on  an  allowance.  He's  playing  square  with  me. 
When  he's  all  straightened  up — and  things  are  so  I  can  go 
home  again — I'll  present  him  to  mother  for  a  butler.  You 
ought  to  see  him  buttle!" 

"Joe  Ed,"  I  began,  a  little  embarrassed,  "you  could  go 
home  to-morrow — to-day — any  time."  I  realised  with 
a  sinking  heart  how  awfully  I'd  hate  to  have 


270  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

him    do    so.       "There's    nothing —      They — the    suit's 
been  dropped." 

"It  has?"  he  stopped  and  looked  at  me,  then  down  at 
his  shabby  clothes,  his  blackened,  scarred  hands.  "Hello,, 
old  timer,"  he  said  absently  to  Boy,  picked  up  my  suit- 
case, then  turned  and  without  another  word  let  through  the 
crowd  toward  the  wagon.  Bice  lifted  my  son  to  the  seat 
beside  him,  we  found  a  fairly  comfortable  location  on  the 
load,  I  put  up  my  umbrella  and  we  started. 

"You'll  go  back  home,  won't  you?"  I  asked,  as  we 
jolted  down  the  road,  facing  back  toward  the  tail  of  the 
wagon,  glad  to  be  high  enough  to  be  out  of  some  of  the 
dust. 

"I  don't  know,"  Joe  Ed  said  slowly.  "Somehow  I  can't 
see  myself  doing  any  Prodigal  Son  act."  He  lowered  his 
tone  and  spoke  under  cover  of  the  umbrella  and  the  noises 
of  the  wagon.  "And  here's  Bice ;  he'll  be  in  fine  shape  by 
the  time  picking's  over,  if  I  stay  by — and  I'll  have  a  little 
something  to  the  good  myself." 

We  left  Corinth  and  soon  began  driving  along  beside 
hop  fields.  On  and  on  we  went ;  there  seemed  to  be  miles 
of  it,  the  "rows"  making  interminable  lanes  of  arbour-like, 
garlanded  green,  all  pretty  and  fresh-looking  in  the  midst 
of  the  golden-tan  California  summer  landscape.  As  our 
wagon  came  opposite  each  opening  we  would  glimpse  pick- 
ers down  that  row,  just  dabs  of  moving  colour;  bending 
backs  of  those  who  worked  low,  lifted  arms  of  the  ones  who 
pulled  down  the  upper  hops.  At  the  near  end  of  a  row 
there  was  a  woman  in  a  gay  head-handkerchief  kneeling  by 
a  great  open  sack,  with  two  little  girls  helping  her  strip 
hops  into  it  from  a  green  pile  of  vines  beside  them. 

"Boy,  are  you  seeing  this  ?"  I  called.  "That's  the  way 
we'll  work." 

"Harmon  ranch,"  Joe  Ed  waved  a  hand.  "Las  Palmas 
hops  don't  come  down  to  the  road  on  this  side." 

It  was  a  long,  hot  ride  in  the  springless  wagon.    But  I 


JOE,  ED  AND  I  TOILED  UP  TO  THE  CAMP 
IN  THE  BLISTERING  HEAT 


LAS  PALMAS  HOP  RANCH  271 

could  hear  Boy,  up  on  the  seat  beside  Bice,  having  a  great 
time.  We  were  at  least  better  off  than  those  who  h;  d  to 
tramp  it,  whom  we  passed  in  little  fagged,  red-faced,  per- 
spiring squads,  throwing  our  dust  on  them  in  addition  to 
that  which  their  own  feet  raised. 

As  we  finally  came  to  the  big  lower  gate  that  led  in  to 
the  camp  ground  and  working  portions  of  Las  Palmas 
ranch,  we  got  a  view  of  the  ranch  house  itself  further  on, 
with  its  own  private  entrance,  and  the  avenue  of  tall  palms 
that  gave  the  place  its  name.  Over  there  things  were  beau- 
tifully green  and  still  and  shady,  the  grounds  about  the 
big,  dignified,  secluded  brick  house  handsomely  kept  up 
by  irrigation.  Turning  in  at  the  workmen's  gate  we  lost 
sight  of  it  for  a  moment,  our  view  cut  off  by  a  big  frame 
building  with  "Las  Palmas  Store"  painted  on  the  weather- 
boarding  above  its  door  in  black  letters  a  foot  high.  There 
was  a  smaller  building  beyond ;  the  office,  where  I  would 
have  to  sign  up  and  get  my  picker's  ticket.  There  were 
quite  a  number  ahead  of  me ;  we  saw  we  might  be  delayed ; 
so  Bice  went  on  with  his  wagon  and  Boy  went  with  him. 

"Put  her  stuff  down  in  that  vacant  place  between  the 
Pochin  shack  and  the  Monroe  tent,"  Joe  Ed  gave  direc- 
tions. "We'll  be  up  to  look  after  them." 

I  signed  the  books.  There  was  no  tent  to  be  had  for  me, 
but  there  would  be  plenty  next  morning.  As  Joe  Ed  and 
I  toiled  up  to  the  camp  in  the  blistering  heat,  he,  with  an 
encouraging  hand  under  my  elbow,  made  light  conversa- 
tion. 

"I  see  the  Hotel  Van  Stack  is  still  running,"  he  indi- 
cated a  couple  of  straw  stacks,  with  some  blankets  and 
bedding  tossed  in  against  them,  that  stood  off  a  bit  from 
the  track  we  were  following.  "Bice  and  I  slept  there  the 
first  night,  along  with  forty  or  fifty  other  extinguished 
guests.  We're  with  the  stags,  now,  in  one  of  the  bull-pens. 
It  isn't  so  bad.  Ventilation's  fine,  both  places ;  fire  escapes 
adequate,  too." 


272  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

It  was  after  eleven  o'clock.  Everybody  was  in  the  field. 
The  fifty  or  sixty  shelters — board  shacks  and  tents — scat- 
tered hit-or-miss  on  the  top  of  the  slope,  the  big  "bull- 
pens"  as  Joe  Ed  had  called  them — mere  enclosures  with 
flimsy  fences  of  stretched  gunny  sacks — looked  as  deserted 
as  a  raffle  of  ill-smelling  waste  thrown  out  and  bleaching  in 
the  sun.  Away  over  yonder  we  had  a  glimpse  of  Bice's 
wagon  moving  off  toward  the  drying  kilns;  Boy  and  my 
things  were  left  in  the  little  strip  of  shade  on  the  north  side 
of  one  of  the  shanties. 

'llight  there's  where  your  tent'll  be,"  Joe  Ed  told  me. 
"The  folks  in  that  house  are  good  people — the  Pochins — 
Polish  Jews ;  a  little  nutty  on  the  I.  W.  W.  subject — that's 
all." 

"But  you  know  I'm  just  from  a  grove  of  nuts,  Joe,"  I 
joked  back  rather  feebly. 

"That's  so,"  he  agreed.  "But  this  has  got  the  old  Pom- 
sett'  skun  a  mile.  Little  of  everything  here.  See  those 
Persians  ?"  nodding  after  a  group  of  dark-faced,  turbaned 
men  who  had  been  on  the  train,  and  were  now  straggling 
away  with  their  bundles  toward  a  dry  slough  that  lay  off 
beside  the  camp.  "They'll  flock  with  another  bunch  of  the 
same  sort  that  came  up  yesterday  and  fixed  a  roost  for 
themselves  in  the  tules.  Catch  them  paying  seventy-five 
cents  a  week  for  a  tent.  There  are  Syrians,  Hindus,  Jap- 
anese, Chinese,  some  Islanders,  plenty  of  Mexicans ;  we've 
even  got  a  few  Indians,  and  every  kind  of  European  that 
Noah  let  out  of  the  ark,  as  well  as  Bice  and  you  and  me. 
Ain't  she  a  gay  old  mix  ?" 

"Yes,"  I  agreed.  "I  had  no  idea  what  it  really  was  like. 
The  worst  you  can  say  of  it,  it's  awfully  interesting." 

"And  at  that  it'll  be  more  interesting  the  further  we  get. 
Yes,  ma'am,  there's  going  to  be  something  of  a  hoo-roosh  on 
Las  Palmas  ranch  before  the  picking's  over." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  a  hoo-roosh  ?"  I  questioned  a  bit 
nervously. 


LAS  PALMAS  HOP  RANGH  273 

"Strike,"  explained  Joe  Ed.  "I'm  blest  if  I  see  how  in 
the  old  cat  they  can  organise  one — got  no  labor  union  back 
of  'em — abont  forty-seven  varieties  and  languages  to  work 
with.  The  man  who  could  pull  it  ofFs  a  wiz.  But  nervy 
little  Barney  Monroe,  and  Paul  Cluett,  and  some  of  the 
others  are  sure  going  to  buck  the  proposition." 

"Strike !"  I  echoed,  coming  to  a  standstill.  "'What  are 
they  going  to  strike  for  ?' 

"Oh,  for  a-plenty !"  Joe  Ed  pulled  a  bit  at  the  elbow  he 
held.  "Come  along,  you'll  hear  all  about  it  this  evening. 
When  we're  not  picking  hops,  we're  holding  meetings. 
You  can't  keep  out  of  it.  You'll  be  asked  to  join  the 
I.  W.  W.  before  you're  five  hours  older." 

"The  I.  W.  W.— what's  that  ?"  I  had  a  vague  notion 
that  I  ought  to  know. 

"Industrial  Workers  of  the  World — the  only  or-gan-isa- 
tion  (I  quote  from  our  distinguished  speakers)  that  em- 
braces all  labouring  people,  as  sich — folks  without  trades 
—see?" 

"Muvver,  I'm  hungry!"  Boy  hallooed,  as  we  came  up. 

It  was  a  heavenly  relief  to  get  into  the  shade  where  he 
stood.  The  little  house  was  fast  closed,  and  on  its  door  a 
square  of  pasteboard,  like  the  top  of  a  shoe-box,  had  the 
name  Pochin. 

"You'll  like  Sonya  and  Vera  Pochin,"  said  Joe  Ed. 
"They've  got  pep.  Young  and  good  lookers,  both  of  'em — 
and  can  dance  all  night.  But  they'd  rather  lead  a  Votes 
for  Women  procession  in  the  hot  sun  like  this,  or  go  to  one 
of  their  I.  W.  W.  meetings." 

"Muwer,  I'm  hungry,"  Boy  repeated  without  the  slight- 
est variation. 

"Yes,  yes,"  I  hushed  him,  "we'll  eat  now,  before  we  go 
to  the  field.  There's  plenty  for  you,  too,  Joe  Ed.  Oh, 
dear"  as  I  turned  my  suit-case  over  sideways  and  began 
pulling  things  out,  "I  forgot  to  get  condensed  milk  at  the 
store  for  Boy!" 


274.  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

Joe  Ed  straightened  up  and  sighted  around,  announcing 
offhand, 

"I'll  borrow  a  can  for  you."  Most  of  the  tents  and 
shacks  were  posted  with  scrawled  notices:  "Keep  out!" 
"Let  Things  Alone!"  but  he  hailed  a  short,  dark,  active 
man  who  came  ploughing  at  an  amazing  pace  through  that 
fiery  heat  up  the  way  we  had  just  travelled.  "Hello, 
Barney!  Got  a  can  of  milk  to  lend  us? — five-cent  size. 
(Mrs.  Baird,  Mr.  Monroe.)  If  she  opens  a  ten-center  in 
this  heat  it'll  spoil  before  she  can  use  it." 

"Yep,  glad  to  oblige."  The  little  man  didn't  halt  till  he 
was  in  the  shade  of  the  tent  beyond  us.  There  he  checked 
and  wiped  the  streaming  sweat  from  his  darkly  flushed 
face.  Joe  pulled  open  the  camping  kit,  got  a  tin  bucket 
and  ran  over  to  the  well.  Barney  Monroe  brought  the 
small  milk  can  and  stopped  to  punch  it  for  me,  setting  his 
own  lunch  bucket  and  water  jug  down  to  do  so. 

The  first  thing  I  did  when  Joe  Ed  fetched  the  water  was 
to  wet  a  towel-end  and  cleanse  the  dust  from  our  hot,  sticky 
faces  and  hands.  I  had  the  milk  in  the  tin  cup,  Boy  was 
nudging  my  elbow  thirstily  with  his,  "Now,  Muwer," 
when  I  glanced  over  and  saw  blue  flies  whirling  above  the 
sump  hole  around  the  well  from  which  that  water  had 
come. 

"My  goodness !"  I  said,  startled.  "I  can't  let  Boy  drink 
that.  It  ought  to  be  boiled — for  a  child,  anyhow." 

"It  ought  to  be  boiled  for  a  hog!"  flamed  out  Monroe, 
mopping  his  streaming  face  again.  "This  in  my  jug 
hasn't  been  boiled,  and  I've  got  two  kids  out  there  in  the 
field  with  my  wife,  that'll  have  to  drink  it — glad  to  get  it. 
We  can't  afford  to  buy  from  that  infernal  stew-wagon." 

" 'S  all  right,  Muvver — 's  all  right.  I'm  so-o  firsty!" 
Boyce  protested.  But  I  lit  my  lamp  stove. 

"Can't  you  work  that  stew-wagon  girl,  Barney?"  ban- 
tered Joe  Ed,  as  he  set  the  water  on  for  me.  "I  get  a 
drink  from  her,  whether  I  buy  or  not." 


LAS  PALMAS  HOP  RANCH  275 

"No,  I  can't."  Monroe  suddenly  showed  a  flash  of 
white  teeth.  "I've  not  got  your  beauty  and  winning  ways." 
He  glanced  at  my  sterilising  operations.  "Lady,  that  may 
be  a  pretty  bad  well  over  there,  but  let  me  tell  you,  by  eight 
of  a  morning  it  and  the  other  one  are  all  pumped  out. 
They  stand  in  line  then  to  fill  their  jugs,  and  lose  the  time 
from  the  picking.  Better  get  what  you  need  now.  There 
ain't  any  to  be  had  in  the  field,  except  what  you  carry 
there.  You  can  take  enough  to  do  you,  or  you  can  perish 
for  it,  or  you  can  buy  some  mean  stuff  you  don't  want  from 
the  stew-wagon  and  get  a  glass  of  good  ice  water  thrown 
in." 

"Business  as  she  is  bizzed  at  the  present  moment  on  the 
hop  ranch  of  Las  Palmas  in  Chavez  county,  California," 
Joe  Ed  contributed,  as  I  was  silent,  laying  out  the  lunch. 

"They've  really  got  more  pickers  now  than  they  can 
properly  take  care  of,  haven't  they  ?"  I  ventured. 

"Of  course  they've  got  too  many  folks  here !"  Monroe 
looked  at  me  in  a  sort  of  helpless  fury.  "It's  what  they 
wanted.  For  what  else  would  they  advertise  all  up  and 
down  the  coast  and  five  miles  out  to  sea,  'Light  work  in  the 
open  air,  good  pay,  a  job  for  every  member  of  the  family'  ? 
And  every  pound  of  human  flesh  on  this  ranch  will  pay 
them  toll  before  it  gets  off.  Sventy-five  cents  a  week  for 
a  tent — there's  good  money  for  'em  in  that  alone." 

"But  I  couldn't  get  any  tent,"  I  objected. 

"Don't  worry,"  he  said.  "The  tents  will  be  here.  Any- 
thing that  they  sell  you  at  five  hundred  per  cent,  profit  will 
be  here.  They  won't  let  a  grocer's  delivery  wagon  on  the 
place;  you'll  buy  from  the  ranch  store  what  they've  got, 
not  what  you  want.  Another  thing:  the  going  price  for 
hop-picking  in  California  this  year  is  a  dollar  a  hundred. 
The  cheque  that  Las  Palmas  gives  for  a  hundred  pounds  of 
clean  hops,  you  can  cash  for  only  ninety  cents.  They  hold 
back  the  rest — they  say  they'll  give  it  to  you  as  a  bonus 
if  you  stay  the  season  out.  But  they  see  to  it  that  condi- 


276  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

tions  are  so  bad  that  you  can't  stay;  there's  a  stream  of 
people  leaving  all  he  time — and  leaving  behind  'em  ten 
per  cent,  of  the  pay  they've  slaved  for.  That's  the  arrange- 
ment you  put  your  name  to  when  you  signed  for  your 
picker's  ticket.  Ten  per  cent,  bonus — yah !" 

"Have  any  luck  with  the  boss  this  morning?"  Joe  Ed 
edged  in  quietly.  "He  going  to  do  anything  about  high- 
pole  men  for  these  women,  and  someone  to  load  the  heavy 
sacks  for  'em?" 

"Got  plenty  more  promises/'  said  Monroe,  scowling. 
"They  promised  tents  to-morrow — and  tents'll  come ;  high- 
pole  men  to-morrow;  some  cleaning  up  of  this  stinking 
camp  to-morrow.  God  knows  if  we'll  get  either."  He 
snapped  his  fingers,  snatched  up  jug  and  bucket.  "We're 
in  a  hell  of  a  fix  here ;  but  if  we  stand  together — maybe — " 

He  whirled  and  went  steaming  away. 

Joe  Ed  and  I  scarcely  looked  at  each  other  all  through 
lunch.  Boy  was  the  only  one  who  ate  his  food  with  ap- 
petite— children  haven't  much  sense  of  smell.  He  wanted 
to  know  all  about  the  queer  things  he  saw,  and  Joe  Ed 
kept  giving  him  funny  answers,  and  seemed  to  take  no 
notice  of  my  having  nothing  to  say.  When  we  had  eaten, 
I  didn't  see  anything  else  to  do  but  go  on  out  to  the  field ; 
he  had  to  get  back  to  his  work;  there  was  no  use  being 
scared  away  before  I  had  even  tried. 

It  was  a  mile  from  the  camp  to  the  picking.  We  passed 
the  drying  kilns,  the  stables,  a  group  of  small  scattered 
houses,  some  of  them  pretty  little  places,  white-painted 
and  with  front  yards  full  of  flowers.  These  were  the  dwell- 
ings of  the  permanent  employees  on  Las  Palmas.  It  took 
a  lot  of  them  for  the  year-round  ranch  work;  they  made 
another  class  of  people,  holding  themselves  very  much 
above  the  pickers.  I  realised  this  when  a  small  girl 
doubled  over  one  of  those  neat  fences  shouted  to  my  son, 
"Hello,  boy!"  and  an  exasperated  voice  called  from  the 


LAS  PALMAS  HOP  RANCH  277 

cottage,  "Come  in  here,  this  minute,  Winona,  and  let  those 
folks  alone." 

We  followed  a  trail  through  a  great  stubble-field  where 
barley  had  been  cut  for  the  horses,  skirted  a  pasture  with 
cows;  by  the  time  we  got  to  the  field  we  were  walking 
pretty  much  in  silence ;  even  Boy's  talk  had  run  out ;  Joe 
Ed  was  too  hot  to  joke.  We  had  eaten  so  early  that  we  now 
passed  hundreds  of  pickers  taking  their  lunch,  sitting 
around  in  the  shade  of  the  rows  near  the  driveway,  tired- 
looking,  hot,  streaked  with  sweat  and  dust.  There  was 
Barney  Monroe,  with  his  wife  and  children — two  pretty 
little  black-eyed  things — he  had  spoken  of.  As  we  came 
up  he  made  a  grim  gesture  with  the  tin  cup  into 
which  he  was  pouring  that  water  that  had  not  been 
boiled. 

"This  is  Mrs.  Baird  that  I  told  you  of,  Lucy,"  he  said 
to  his  wife.  "She  and  the  kid  are  going  to  be  neighbours 
to  us  in  camp." 

I  had  never  thought  of  finding  anybody  there  that  I'd 
known  before,  but  the  Clarks,  a  poor  family  that  lived  in 
back  of  the  Cronin  building  on  Chico  street,  spoke  to  me  as 
I  passed.  Further  down  an  old  man  who  used  to  do  odd 
jobs  out  at  Las  Reudas  hailed  Boyce,  waving  an  arm. 
And  so,  when  somebody  called,  "Hello,  how  d'ye  do,  Mrs. 
Baird,"  I  wasn't  greatly  surprised  to  discover  in  the  big, 
grimy-faced  fellow  who  spoke,  slab  of  cheese  in  hand,  Ru- 
dolph Flegel,  old  Flegel's  son  by  a  first  wife.  Dolph 
couldn't  get  on  with  his  stepmother — just  drifted  around 
from  orchard  to  orchard,  from  packing  place  to  cannery, 
in  the  seasons. 

"Hello,  Rudolph,"  I  said,  and  was  for  Hurrying  forward 
to  our  place;  but  he  got  up  and  came  blundering  along 
with  us,  like  a  friendly  stray  pup.  Joe  Ed  went  a  little 
way  down  the  row  to  some  folks  there,  Boy  at  his  heels. 

"Goin'  to  pick  ?"  questioned  Rudolph  eagerly. 

I  nodded. 


278  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

"When  d'you  leave  Meaghers?  Was  you  there  when 
them  swells  at  the  Pendleton  camp ?" 

Dolph  could  eat  and  talk  (after  a  fashion)  at  the  same 
time. 

"I've  been  away  from  Meaghers  more  than  a  year,"  I 
tried  to  divert  him. 

"Oh,"  he  looked  disappointed.  "Well,  you  seen  it  in 
the  papers,  didn't  you  ?  Funny,  about  that  woman — huh  ? 
I  bet  I  could  'a'  found  her  for  'em,  if  I'd  'a'  been  there. 
You  know  she  couldn't  get  away — in  her  nightgownd !" 

"Dolph,"  I  interrupted,  "I'm  in  a  hurry,"  and  went 
after  Joe  Ed  and  Boy.  I  left  him  standing  there,  uncouth, 
at  a  loss  as  to  how  he  had  offended,  muttering, 

"Well,  see  you  later,  mebbe." 

The  people  Joe  Ed  had  stopped  beside  were  the  Pochins, 
a  great  tribe  headed  by  a  meek,  stooped,  long-bearded  old 
man  whom  everybody  called  Father  Abraham,  and  his 
wife,  married  sons  and  daughters  with  youngsters  of  their 
own,  the  two  girls  Vera  and  Sonya,  and  a  whole  fry  of 
smaller  children,  the  second  and  third  generation  all 
open-eyed,  clever,  high-strung,  temperamental  looking — 
public  school  products.  In  spite  of  sunburn  and  hard  liv- 
ing, the  grown  daughters  were  very  handsome ;  Sonya  in 
a  thin,  fiery  fashion,  her  sister  Vera  with  the  broad-browed 
Madonna  beauty.  When  Joe  Ed  explained  that  I  was  to 
have  a  tent  next  theirs  in  camp,  the  little  withered  old 
mother  at  once  offered, 

"Might  you  should  throw  in  with  us  for  supper  to-night, 
so  you  wouldn't  be  lonesome  ?" 

"Thank  you.  I'll  be  glad  to,"  I  said.  Then  we  found 
my  row ;  Joe  Ed  went  on  to  his  and  out  of  my  sight. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THREE  DAYS 

THOSE  arboured  green  aisles  of  Las  Palmas  hop  ranch 
that  had  looked  so  cool  and  peaceful  from  the  train 
simmered  in  a  heat  that  ranged  day  by  day  from  one  hun- 
dred and  six  to  one  hundred  and  twenty.  There  was 
always  a  dry  rustle  there,  whether  the  wind  blew  or  not, 
and  the  dusty,  sleepy  smell  of  hops.  I  stood  in  that  smoth- 
ering lane  of  vines,  face  to  face  with  the  job  I  had  under- 
taken, my  bridges  burned  behind  me.  The  salt  moisture 
ran  down  my  face;  I  looked  round  uneasily  at  Boy.  He 
was  squared  away  beside  an  empty  hop  sack,  red-faced, 
gazing  with  screwed-up  eyes  at  the  scratchy,  dangling  pen- 
dant of  vine  with  its  thick-set,  papery  hops,  that  swung  in 
front  of  him. 

"You  can  sit  down  and  rest,  Muwer,  if  you  want  to," 
he  offered.  "You  show  me — I'll  pick  'em." 

"Pooh— the  idea !    I'm  not  tired.    We'll  both  pick." 

At  it  we  went.  The  old  gloves  I  wore  saved  my  hands 
from  being  scratched  and  then  smeared  with  the  black, 
sticky  sap  of  the  vines.  There  was  no  use  attempting  to 
keep  Boy's  hard,  stubby  little  paws  out  of  it.  He  worked 
like  a  tiger;  his  only  complaint  was  of  the  tepid,  boiled 
water  in  our  bottle.  So  when  a  light  covered  wagon  passed 
the  end  of  the  row,  I  called  and  stopped  it,  intending  to 
buy  him  a  cool  drink.  As  I  went  toward  the  outfit  I  saw 
that  the  driver  was  a  mature  woman,  dressed  girlishly  in 
ready-made  middy  and  outing  skirt,  with  tennis  shoes  and 
silk  stockings ;  but  I  was  right  up  to  her  before  I  realised 
that  it  was  Milt  Stanley's  wife. 

"Hello,  Gallic,"  she  said  easily.  "Milt  swore  he  found 
your  name  on  to-day's  list.  How  d'ye  do  ?" 

270 


280  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

"Milt !"  I  echoed.     "Is  he  at  Las  Palmas  ?" 

"Yep,  we're  all  here."  She  slid  me  a  sidelong  look. 
"That's  no  news  to  you,  is  it  ?  Milt's  manager." 

"Manager — of  this  ranch?" 

"Why,  sure.  Callie,  he  hasn't  drank  a  drop  for  six 
months — and  he's  manager.  I'm  so  doggoned  thankful 
that  I'm  willing  to  drive  round  and  peddle  grub,  or  any- 
thing, to  help  out." 

"Is  that  your  horse  and  wagon  ?"  Boyce  spoke  up,  hands 
in  overall  pockets,  squinting  judicially  at  the  turnout. 
"Are  you  got  ice-water  to  sell  ?" 

"Hello !    I  know  whose  kid  you  are."    Luella  took  him 
up. 
"He  wants  a  cool  drink,"  I  said.     "Can  I  buy  one?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  sell  water,"  she  began,  just  as  Joe  Ed's 
lean,  perspiring  young  face  thrust  itself  around  the  green 
shoulder  of  my  row. 

"Ko,  you  don't,  Louisiana  Lou — you  give  it  away !"  he 
jeered.  He  had  an  empty  fruit-jar  in  his  hand,  and  he 
came  on  with  a  perfectly  businesslike  air. 

"ISFow,  you  Joe!"  Luella's  features,  inexpressive  as 
though  they  had  been  cut  out  of  a  raw  potato,  changed  just 
as  I  had  seen  Mrs.  Thrasher's  wooden  countenance  do. 
She  smiled  at  Joe  Ed.  "Take  what  you  want;  but  don't 
you  tote  off  any  of  that  water  for  them  other  people." 

He  went  to  the  back  of  the  wagon,  and  proceeded  to  help 
himself.  Luella  handed  a  tilled  glass  to  me  for  Boyce, 
saying,^ 

"This  is  on  me,  too,  Callie."  Then  as  she  noted  the 
hand  in  which  I  took  the  tumbler,  "Gloves !"  she  simpered. 
"Careful  of  your  looks  as  ever.  My,  but  you  were  a  pretty 
little  thing  when  Phil  and  you  used  to  go  together  back  in 
Stanleyton !" 

"I  want  anower !"  Boyce  had  wolfed  down  his  one  glass. 

"Sure,  kid."  Then  in  a  lower  tone,  passing  it  out, 
"Ever  hear  from  Phil  these  days  ?"  . 


THREE  DAYS  281 

I  shook  my  head. 

"What !  You  didn't  know  he'd  cut  loose  from  the  old 
folks  entirely  ?" 

"~No"  I  was  brief.  "Thank  you  for  the  water.  Come, 
Boyce,  we  must  get  to  work." 

"Well,  wait  a  minute  till  I  tell  you,"  she  persisted.  1 
tried  to  stop  her  with, 

"I  know  he's  back  on  the  coast.     I  heard  that." 

"Oh,  but  I'm  telling  you  he  ain't  with  his  folks,  nor 
liable  to  be  with  'em  any  more.  Did  you  know  he  never 
showed  up  for  the  whole  four  years  he  was  in  college  ? — 
stayed  right  through  vacations — said  the  climate  agreed 
with  him — and  they  footed  the  bills.  Hold  on,  Callie — 
don't  rush.  They  paid  and  paid — you  know  Phil's  a 
spender — and  as  soon  as  he  got  his  diploma  he  walked  in 
on  'em,  the  swellest  looking  thing  you  ever  seen,  and  began 
givin'  'em  his  views — laying  the  law  down  to  'em — and 
there  was  one  grand  split.  Phil  just  as  good  as  kicked 
himself  out  of  the  house.  Milt's  It  with  them  now. 
I  guess  Phil's  gone  right  down,  got  to  be  just  a  sort  of 
tramp.  Have  a  glass  of  lemonade  on  me,  Callie,  you  and 
Joe." 

"N"o  thanks,  we'd  rather  live  longer,"  Joe  Ed  came  up 
and  declined  for  us  both  light-heartedly.  "Say,  Louisiana 
Lou,  is  it  acetic  acid  or  Prussic,  that  you  murderers  use 
for  that  wassail  ?" 

"You  young  devil !"  she  grinned  at  him  as  she  drove  off 
and  he  turned  to  me  instantly  with, 

"Who's  Phil?" 

"Oh — a  boy  I  used  to  know — when  I  was  in  school." 

"An  old  sweetheart,"  Joe  went  straight  to  it.  "Was  she 
talking  about  Philip  Stanley?" 

"Yes." 

"And  little  Dewdrop  Auntie  who  drives  the  busy  stew- 
wagon  says  newey's  gone  down  in  the  world — got  to  be  a 
tramp  ?" 


282  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

"Oh,  I  shouldn't  pay  any  attention  to  Luella's  talk  about 
him,"  I  said  impatiently. 

"Eight  you  are,"  Joe  Ed  agreed.  "He  was  in  San 
Francisco  two  weeks  ago.  The  Pochins  know  him — got 
acquainted  with  him  when  he  was  doing  that  tramping  that 
little  Lulu  mentioned.  He  went  into  it  to  get  first-hand 
information.  He's  a  Capital-and-Labor  sharp,  Sonya  told 
me.  I  saw  him  once  in  Frisco.  He  looks  a  fat  lot  more 
like  a  plute  than  a  tramp.  So  long;  see  you  at  dinner." 
Joe  Ed  went  back  to  his  work,  and  I  turned  to  mine.  , 

I  had  risen  unusually  early  that  morning  after  an 
almost  sleepless  night,  and  made  a  railway  journey;  and 
I  had  met  some  pretty  hard  setbacks.  As  the  afternoon 
went  on  I  felt  the  effect  of  this.  The  heat  told  on  both 
Boy  and  me.  After  awhile  he  curled  down  and  went  to 
sleep,  but  I  kept  at  it  the  best  I  could  till  we  heard  the 
whistle  over  at  the  drying  kiln.  Women  had  been  drop- 
ping out  and  starting  for  the  camp  for  some  little  time, 
going  ahead  to  get  supper,  leaving  their  men  to  finish  up. 
The  last  wagons  were  on  their  rounds.  My  afternoon's 
picking  was  not  so  heavy  but  what  I  could  drag  the  sack 
down  to  the  driveway  and  load  it  without  much  trouble; 
but  the  little  frail-looking  woman  in  the  next  row,  who  had 
been  at  work  all  day,  was  having  a  terrible  time  to  handle 
a  sack  that  would  weigh  a  hundred  pounds  or  more.  I 
went  to  help  her,  and  we  were  pulling  at  it  when  Joe  Ed 
came  whistling  along  and  loaded  it  for  us. 

"Hey,  old  timer,  you're  soldiering  on  the  job,"  he  said, 
picking  Boy  up.  We  joined  the  steady,  scattering  stream 
that  was  moving  from  the  hop  fields  toward  that  gaunt, 
forlorn,  ill-smelling  slope  where  the  camp  was. 

The  terrible  sun  had  gone  down  clear  and  red  in  a  cloud- 
less sky,  with  promise  of  another  burning  day.  The  camp 
full  of  people,  every  tent  and  shack  lighted  by  its  candle, 
lamp  or  lantern,  the  little  outside  cooking  fires  seeming  to 
make  the  general  heat  intolerable,  was  like  a  big,  poor, 


THREE  DAYS  283 

dirty  street  fair.  Down  the  line  somewhere  a  phonograph 
was  playing,  a  ten-year-old  boy  jumping  up  and  running, 
hunk  of  bread  and  meat  in  hand,  to  change  the  records. 
Everybody  was  trying  to  keep  cool.  There  were  both  men 
and  women  barefoot.  The  children  had  as  little  on  as 
possible.  Lights  winked  over  in  the  tules  where  the  Ori- 
entals were. 

I  ate  with  the  Pochins  and  Monroes  that  first  evening. 
We  all  helped  to  get  the  meal,  and  then  sat  around  on  the 
ground  to  eat  it.  Joe  Ed  came  over  with  a  glass  of  bacon 
and  a  bottle  of  jam,  and  joined  us.  Boy,  fresh  after  his 
long  nap,  was  delighted  to  be  with  all  those  children. 
Tired  little  souls,  they  were  well  behaved,  like  weary  men 
and  women,  but  nice  as  could  be  to  him.  As  I  sat  there, 
the  guest  of  honour,  I  had  a  sudden,  ludicrous  recollection 
of  that  first  meal  of  mine  at  the  Poinsettia,  and  how  differ- 
ently I  had  been  treated. 

Now  I  saw  Barney  Cluett  for  the  first  time,  a  broad, 
bench-legged,  round-faced  man,  with  two  deep  dimples 
that  played  in  his  brick-red  cheeks  when  he  spoke.  He  was 
after  Monroe  to  go  over  and  talk  strike,  through  an  inter- 
preter, to  the  Hindus  and  Persians.  The  first  thing  he  said 
to  me  was, 

"Are  you  going  to  join  the  I.  W.  W.  and  strike  with 
us?" 

"Sure  we  are,"  Joe  Ed,  as  usual,  answered  for  me,  and 
I  let  it  go  at  that. 

I'll  say  here  that  I  stuck  it  out  and  picked  hops  on  Las 
Palmas  ranch  for  three  days.  My  memories  of  those  days 
are  all  of  parching  thirst  and  flies,  of  stenches  and  despair 
and  the  lamentations  of  the  people.  The  temperature  ran 
frightfully  high ;  the  housing  was  inhuman ;  the  sanitary 
arrangements  something  you  couldn't  talk  about.  The  best 
I  could  do,  working  hard,  was  about  ninety  cents  a  day. 
Some  of  the  men,  keeping  at  it  from  dark  to  dark,  doubled 
that;  families,  all  picking  into  one  sack,  had  the  hopeful 


284  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

feeling  that  they  made  a  good  bit.  But  in  the  field  there 
wasn't  even  an  attempt  at  the  ameliorations  and  decencies 
of  civilised  life.  The  humiliations,  the  cruel,  needless  ex- 
posure of  a  day  there  almost  outweighed  the  physical  dis- 
tress of  sweltering  heat  and  underpaid  hard  work. 

When  Luella  Stanley  would  come  driving  that  execrated 
stew-wagon  through  the  fields,  I  used  to  wonder  how  even 
she  had  the  face.  When  she  showed  a  disposition  to  hang 
around  a  bit  and  try  to  draw  me  out,  I  would  just  put  the 
nickel  in  Boy's  hand,  and  send  him  down  the  row  by  him- 
self to  get  what  he  wanted.  I  never  went  to  the  office  and 
seldom  to  the  store,  so  that  I  only  saw  Milt  once,  and  that 
time  there  wasn't  a  word  said  about  things  on  the  ranch 
here.  He  asked  me,  almost  in  Luella's  exact  words,  if  I'd 
seen  or  heard  from  Phil  lately. 

Of  course  the  individual  protests  and  complaints  must 
have  been  pouring  in  steadily  on  the  ranch  management; 
while  Monroe  Cluett  and  four  or  five  of  the  other  men 
were  putting  every  minute  they  could  get  from  their  pick- 
ing into  organising  work.  Little  groups  of  moving  men, 
stripped  to  their  undershirts  and  trousers,  their  faces  shin- 
ing with  sweat,  were  always  at  it  of  an  evening.  They'd 
sent  for  I.  W.  W.  literature,  and  "Wobblies,"  as  Industrial 
Workers  of  the  World  agitators  are  called.  They  were 
trying  to  get  up  a  big,  representative  meeting  and  make  a 
formal  protest,  so  that  the  owners  would  have  to  take  no- 
tice of  them,  though  to  an  outsider  the  uniting  of  that 
great,  drifting,  groaning,  suffering  crowd,  that  spoke  in 
nearly  thirty  different  tongues,  in  an  effective  strike, 
seemed  hopeless. 

As  Wednesday  and  Thursday  went  by  with  no  cleaning 
up  of  the  camp  nor  any  sanitation  in  the  fields,  dysentery 
broke  out.  The  Pochins  had  two  children  actually  down, 
and  several  others  of  the  tribe  weren't  fit  to  be  at  work. 
Little  Ida  Monroe  was  very  bad  Friday  night.  Of  course 
her  mother  was  taking  care  of  her,  but  with  her  crying, 


THREE  DAYS  285 

and  the  groans  of  a  thirteen-year-old  girl  in  a  tent  further 
down,  nobody  in  our  neighbourhood  got  much  sleep. 

The  truth  is  that  the  place,  with  its  smells  and  dirt,  and 
lack  of  all  decent  conveniences,  had  become  a  man-made 
hell.  Yet  under  the  pressure  of  a  misery  that  might  have 
been  expected  to  make  devils  of  them,  these  poverty- 
stricken,  seasonal  workers  were  considerate  and  forbear- 
ing. Human  nature,  at  the  breaking  point,  didn't  show  so 
badly.  I  saw  beautiful,  compassionate,  impersonal,  clean 
kindness  shown  by  ignorant,  driven,  harried  men  to  the 
more  harried  and  driven  women  about  them,  and  this  with- 
out the  hateful  suggestion  of  what  we  agree  to  call  gal- 
lantry. It  was  a  contrast  to  the  behaviour  of  the  Harvey 
Watkins  and  Stokes  sort ;  in  its  light  Mr.  Dale  showed  a 
poor  thing  indeed. 

Right  through  the  worst  of  it  the  young  folks  wanted 
to  I'ave  a  good  time.  Joe  Ed  and  his  ukelele  were  in  con- 
stant demand.  That  inextinguishable  spirit  of  his  was  like 
a  flash  of  sun,  moving  about  in  the  dull  misery  of  the  Las 
Palmas  situation.  He  was  always  ready  to  play,  to  dance ; 
he  struck  up  a  comradeship  with  an  English  lad  whose 
name  I  never  knew  because  everybody  just  called  him 
"English."  This  boy  had  a  soaring  young  tenor,  and  the 
two  of  them  generally  led  the  I.  W.  W.  songs  that  were 
liked  best.  Of  an  evening  they  used  to  carry  a  phonograph 
over  to  the  dance  platform  and  dance,  though  the  older 
women  sighed,  "How  do  they  get  the  strength !" 

Each  evening  Sonya  took  the  San  Erancisco  papers  and, 
sitting  under  the  lantern  that  hung  on  the  front  wall  of 
their  shanty,  read  out  the  news.  A  crowd  gathered  to  lis- 
ten to  her.  There  was  a  lot  of  the  Boggs-Pendleton  case  to 
make  me  wince  with  its  "drag-net,"  and  "sleuths"  and 
"clue"  and  "mysterious  missing  woman  witness."  It  kept 
me  well  reminded  that  whatever  the  state  of  things  here, 
I  didn't  want  to  go  back  to  San  Vicente. 

I  came  on  Wednesday;  on  Saturday  evening,  at  last, 


286  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

they  got  together  a  sort  of  meeting.  There  wasn't  any 
dancing  that  night,  or  any  singing.  Sonya's  papers  lay 
unread  below  the  lantern.  Down  near  the  driveway — 
because  there  was  a  rumour  that  the  proprietor  of  Las 
Palmas  had  motored  into  Corinth  and  would  come  back 
past  there — they  gathered  in  the  summer  dusk,  a  few 
hundred  bewildered,  discouraged  men  and  women. 

I  left  Boy  with  the  Monroe  and  Pochin  children.  I'd 
have  to  go  back  and  put  him  to  bed  pretty  soon ;  but  I  did 
want  to  hear  some  of  the  speaking  anyhow.  It  had  begun 
when  I  got  there,  and  I  stood  on  the  outskirts.  There  were 
all  sorts  of  people — fathers  and  mothers  of  families  with 
their  children  about  them;  hoboes  and  revolutionaries, 
some  plainly  as  much  scared  as  I  was,  and  others  keen  for 
the  fight,  all  looking  shadowy  and  unreal  in  the  twilight. 
Dark,  timid,  puzzled  faces  and  foreign  costumes  showed 
here  and  there ;  turbaned  heads  were  among  those  craned 
forward  to  listen  to  the  speakers. 

That  tired,  hot,  dirty  crowd  could  look  far  up  to  where, 
in  the  brilliant  electric  light  streaming  from  the  windows 
of  the  owner's  big  brick  house — a  tantalising  sight — the 
gyrating  arms  of  the  automatic  sprinklers  tossed  bright 
water  to  keep  the  lawn  fresh  and  green.  The  temperature 
had  run  up  to  a  hundred  and  five  in  the  shade  of  the  vines 
that  day ;  we  could  smell  the  camp  from  where  we  stood ; 
the  Saturday  night  pay  in  our  pockets  was  a  reminder  of 
its  shortage.  I  can't  see  yet  anything  unreasonable  in  the 
demands  they  were  talking  of — free  drinking  water,  a 
cleaning  up  of  the  camp,  and  the  same  pay  other  ranches 
were  giving. 

I  was  saying  this  over  and  over  to  myself,  a  lump  in  my 
throat  while  I  listened  and  looked  about.  Right  behind 
me  a  Klaxon  horn  snarled  out  startlingly.  I  screamed 
and  fell  back  with  the  rest.  Moving  as  silently  as  a  big 
shadow,  a  powerful,  handsome  automobile  was  almost  on 
us.  I  looked  directly  up  into  the  face  of  the  man  at  the 


THE  COMMITTEE  287 

wheel.  It  was  a  fellow  by  the  name  of  Brockaw,  who  used 
to  be  a  teamster  in  Corinth,  and  was  now  constable  at  Las 
Palmas,  a  sworn  county  officer,  but  paid  by  the  ranch.  A 
lady  and  gentleman  sat  on  the  back  seat. 

"The  owners,"  whispered  a  woman  near  me.  The  car 
had  come  to  a  stop ;  our  speakers  turned  and  surged  right 
up  to  it;  the  press  wedged  me  in  so  that  where  I  stood 
now  the  headlights  blinded  me,  and  I  could  see  only  the 
faces  of  that  miserable  crowd  all  raised  to  those  who  sat  in 
the  machine. 

Above  the  throbbing  of  the  engine  I  heard  Paul  Cluett 
saying,  "We  want  to  ask  you,  sir — "  and  then  a  curiously 
familiar  voice  broke  in  from  the  auto,  "Who  are  you  ? 
What's  all  this  ?"  I  pushed  desperately  around  to  the  side, 
got  the  light  out  of  my  eyes,  and  saw  that  the  lady  and 
gentleman  there  in  the  car  were  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stanley ! 

I  suppose  that  Paul  Cluett  went  on  with  what  he  was 
saying ;  indeed  I  know  he  must  have  done  so,  for  the  first 
thing  that  was  clear  to  me  after  that  was  Mr.  Stanley's 
voice  again: 

"Hah !  You  can't  take  snap  judgment  on  me,  Cluett — 
stop  my  machine  and  try  to  hold  me  up  for  extra  pay  and 
drinking  fountains.  I've  got  nothing  to  say  to  you." 

"I  guess  you'll  have  to  give  us  an  answer.  Our  com- 
mittee  " 

"Committee !"  Mr.  Stanley  snorted  at  him.  "Who  are 
they?" 

"Well,  we  haven't  got — yet.  Say — if  we  get  'em  to- 
gether, will  you  meet  us  ?" 

There  was  a  strained  silence,  then,  slowly,  grudgingly, 

"Well  .  .  .  I'm  not  recognising  any  organisation 
by  this,  but— 

"Where'll  you  met  us  ?  When  ?"  Barney  Monroe  was 
not  to  be  held  out  of  it  any  longer. 

"At  the  office — the  proper  place,"  savagely.  "To-morrow 
morning — ten,  sharp.  Four  of  you — no  more.  I'll  give 


288  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

you  five  minutes  to  say  your  saTT  in  then ;  that's  as  far  as 
I'll  go." 

"In  writing — to-night,  yet,  we  send  the  paper,"  Father 
Abraham's  voice  was  raised. 

All  this  time  Mrs.  Stanley's  eyes  had  been  on  me  where 
I  stood.  Now  she  was  pulling  her  husband's  sleeve  to  call 
his  attention. 

"Who  ?"  he  blurted  out  impatiently,  then  as  she  pointed 
and  whispered,  "Where?"  He  saw  me  at  last,  glared  at 
me  for  a  moment,  then, 

"Clear  the  road  there !"  he  shouted,  and  as  they  scuffled 
back  they  hissed  him.  "Brockaw,  drive  on." 

With  a  roar  the  car  leaped  away,  leaving  behind  it 
curses  and  shaken  fists. 


CHAPTEK  XIX 

THE   COMMITTEE 

THE  big,  shining  car  went  roaring  on  into  the  warm 
dusk,  driven  by  a  hired  bully,  carrying  the  angry 
old  man  and  his  contemptuous  lady  wife,  leaving  behind 
rage,  misery,  dirt  and  unseemliness,  leaving  me  with  the 
other  undersirables. 

I  stood  and  looked  after  them.  What  an  irony  of  fate 
that  out  of  all  the  hop  ranches  in  California  I  had  blun- 
dered upon  the  one  owned  by  these  people!  I  ought  to 
have  known  when  I  found  Luella  and  Milt  in  positions 
here.  They  had  both  thought  I  did  know;  that  was  what 
they  meant  by  asking  me  if  I'd  heard  from  Philip  lately. 
They  took  it  for  granted  I'd  come  to  Las  Palmas 
because  of  him.  Of  course  they  had  hurried  at  once 
to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stanley  and  told  them  I  was  among 
the  pickers — she  wouldn't  have  recognised  me  to- 
night if  she  hadn't  been  looking  for  me.  It  stung  all 
over  my  consciousness  like  nettles;  and  I  was  as  keen 
to  get  away  from  the  ranch  as  though  it  had  been  a  nettle 
patch. 

People  pushed  against  me,  and  passed  me.  I  looked 
around;  the  crowd  was  moving,  leaving  that  trampled, 
dusty  spot  at  the  edge  of  the  road,  with  its  rebuff  and  dis- 
appointment, going  with  a  rush  toward  the  dance  platform. 
Joe  Ed  bobbed  up  at  my  shoulder. 

"Come  on,"  he  exulted.  "Now  we'll  have  it.  This'll 
put  pep  into  the  limpest  of  'em.  By  to-morrow  they'll 
be  solid." 

I  went  with  him  in  silence  quite  a  way,  edging  toward 
the  outskirts  as  we  moved.  Finally  when  we  were  almost 
opposite  my  tent, 

289 


290  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

"Don't  come  any  farther  with  me,  Joe,"  I  said.  "You 
go  on  to  the  meeting." 

"Aren't  you  coming,  too  ?  What'  up  ?"  he  halted,  sur- 
prised. 

"No,  I've  got  to  pack  and  get  ready.  I'm  going  to 
leave  here  in  the  morning,  just  as  soon  as  I  can." 

"Scared  of  the  strike?"  solicitously.  "Oh,  there's  not 
going  to  be  any  rough " 

"It's  not  that,"  I  broke  in.  "I'll  tell  you  some  other 
time,  Joe." 

"Sure — sure — that's  all  right,"  he  turned  me  toward  the 
tent.  "Course  you  ought  never  to  have  been  here,  any- 
how." 

Over  yonder  we  could  hear  the  young  folks  shouting 
half-joking  objections  to  having  their  dance  platform 
taken  away  from  them.  I  distinguished  Cluett's  nasal, 
"Gwan — gwan,  you  kid's.  Got  xeal  business  on  hand 
here."  Then  Barney  Monroe's  fog-horn  voice  yelled  for 
singers.  Joe  turned  and  ran. 

Putting  Boy  to  bed,  I  mechanically  pulled  out  my  slim 
purse  and  counted  my  money.  Not  enough  to  take  me  far. 
Well,  it  was  only  a  question  of  living  for  a  few  weeks ;  I 
was  up  here  now ;  maybe  I'd  better  stop  in  Corinth  and  see 
Mrs.  Eccles's  son-in-law  about  a  job  on  some  other  hop 
ranch  till  the  season  was  over — that  would  carry  me  into 
the  fall  and  the  time  of  business  chances  in  the  cities. 
These  hadn't  looked  so  bad  when  I  heard  of  them  back  in 
San  Vicente ;  yet  now  they  shrank  to  nothing.  My  spirit 
was  still  prostrate  from  that  encounter  with  the  Stanleys. 
I  couldn't  summon  a  bit  of  pride  or  hope.  Lying  there 
afterward  in  the  dark,  thinking  it  over,  with  the  noises  and 
the  nauseous  smells  of  the  camp  about  me,  it  seemed  that 
I  had  gone  steadily  down  in  the  world  since  the  time  of  my 
first  defeat  at  the  hands  of  these  people,  and  that  here  and 
now  I  had  about  reached  the  bottom.  If  I  had  made  any 
success — breaking  away  from  a  degrading  marriage,  get- 


THE  COMMITTEE  291 

ting  legal  freedom,  keeping  my  child  and  gaining  a  profes- 
sion that  would  support  us  both — not  in  the  dejection  of 
that  hour  was  I  able  to  realise  it.  I  just  lay  there  and  felt 
like  the  dust  under  the  wheels  on  the  Stanley  motor  as  it 
had  rolled  past  down  yonder  on  the  drive. 

The  meeting  didn't  hold  very  late.  Its  speaking  and 
singing  ceased  about  half -past  ten;  and  then  squads  and 
bunches  began  to  straggle  past  my  tent,  talking  loud.  Joe 
was  right ;  they  were  in  earnest  now.  They  meant  to  make 
a  stand  for  it  to-morrow.  They  shouted  and  sang  snatches 
of  I.  W.  W.  songs ;  those  in  the  shacks  and  tents  who  were 
asleep,  or  trying  to  get  to  sleep,  yelled  at  them  fretfully, 
and  were  j  erred  for  slackers.  Altogether,  it  was  a  strange 
sort  of  night ;  for  when  that  had  quieted,  and  the  camp — 
like  a  big,  sick,  suffering  monster  trying  to  get  bedded 
down — seemed  to  be  turning  and  moaning  half  conscious, 
a  queer  screeching  that  might  have  been  laughter,  or 
screams,  or  a  fight,  broke  out  over  by  the  slough.  Then 
someone  ran  past  my  tent  in  the  dark  with  a  pad,  pad,  pad 
of  bare  feet,  and  a  whistle  of  loud  breathing. 

At  dawn  Boy  waked  me,  fretting  for  a  drink.  When  I 
looked  at  him — his  cheeks  too  red,  his  tongue  coated — I 
came  to  my  senses  with  a  jump.  Here  was  my  real  rea- 
son for  leaving  Las  Palmas  ranch  and  its  wretched  con- 
ditions. One  touch  of  anxiety  for  the  child  made  me 
wonder  at  and  despise  last  night's  mood — a  mood  that 
could  give  any  importance  to  what  the  Stanleys  might 
think  of  my  coming  or  leaving. 

I  didn't  go  back  to  bed,  but  dressed  then  and  there — 
putting  on  my  street  clothes  and  laying  out  Boy's  best 
things,  too.  The  whole  camp  seemed  to  be  waking  early 
that  Sunday  morning.  Before  I  was  finished  there  were 
women  out  at  the  cooking  fires  getting  breakfast.  The 
calling  back  and  forth  from  tent  to  tent,  and,  later,  from 
one  breakfasting  group  to  another,  sounded  different  from 
what  it  ever  had  before.  There  was  a  new  tone  to  the  noise 


292  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

and  clamour;  the  spirit  of  last  night's  meeting  was  in 
it. 

By  nine  o'clock  the  p±ace  was  a  babel,  people  stream- 
ing up  and  down  in  the  dust  and  heat,  talking,  gesticulat- 
ing, arguing  over  appointments,  directions,  the  strikers' 
plans  for  the  day.  I  was  packed  and  ready.  Boy  and  I 
dressed,  everything  finished  and  closed  up.  I  went  over 
to  the  Pochins  to  see  what  I  could  find  out  about  getting 
someone  to  take  Boy  and  the  baggage.  Some  friends  of 
theirs  had  gone  to  the  Harmon  ranch  the  day  before  I 
came. 

"How  did  the  Salinskys  move?"  I  asked  Father 
Abraham. 

"Tramped  it,"  said  he.  "Mother,  give  me  those  tracts 
in  Yiddish.  I  shall  be  off." 

"Tramped !"  I  repeated.    "Well,  I  can't  do  that." 

"Off !  You  shaU  be  off !"  cried  Mrs.  Pochin,  blankly, 
straightening  up  from  the  pallet  she  was  spreading  on  the 
shady  side  of  the  shack  for  little  Leo,  the  sickest  of  her 
grandchildren.  "Who  gets  me,  then,  the  arrowroot  and 
magnesian  for  this  child  ?" 

"Mother,  I'm  on  the  committee."  The  old  man  spoke 
like  a  soldier  who  goes  to  the  firing  line. 

"The  committee!  And  Barney,  too — his  children  can 
die,  just  so  well,  while  he  works  by  the  committee." 

"You  women  must  tend  to  such  things.  Send  the  girls 
for  what  you  need."  Father  Abraham  moved  off  deter- 
minedly. "If  the  committee  doesn't  meet  Stanley  yet, 
mother,  then  we're  all  sick  and  we  all  die." 

"Girls!"  his  wife  wailed  after  him.  "My  girls  ain't 
girls  any  more."  She  looked  around  to  me  with  angry  eyes 
full  of  tears.  "My  man  goes ;  the  boys,  they  went  first ; 
Vera  and  Sonya,  long  ago  they  chase  off  about  somebody 
that  comes  for  statistics  on  the  Bureau  of  Labor  at  Wash- 
ington. Dear  God,  what  can  I  do  ?" 

"Well,"  I  hesitated,  "I've  got  to  go  down  to  the  store 


THE  COMMITTEE  293 

anyhow  and  see  about  some  way  of  getting  moved.  I'll  try 
to  get  the  things  for  you." 

"Mrs.  Baird,"  Barney  Monroe's  wife  called  from  her 
door,  "while  you're  trying,  I  wish  you'd  see  if  you  can  get 
some  Jamaica  ginger,  or  even  some  brandy  that  I  could 
burn  for  Ellie.  Poor  Barney,"  she  said,  coming  out  to 
fetch  me  a  fifty-cent  piece ;  "I'm  as  sorry  for  him  as  I  am 
for  myself  and  the  children — working  like  a  dog  over  this 
strike ;  and,  like  enough,  the  most  he'll  do  is  to  get  himself 
out  of  a  job — and  when  he's  been  fired,  maybe  the  rest  of 
'em  will  stay  right  on  and  pick  the  hops.  You  can't  get 
folks  like  this  to  stand  together." 

"All  right,"  I  said,  putting  the  coin  in  my  purse.  "I'll 
do  the  best  I  can.  May  I  leave  Boy  here  ?  I  hate  to  take 
him  with  me  in  this  heat." 

"You  shall  leave  the  boy  by  me,"  Mrs.  Pochin  put  in. 
"And  I  hope  you  get  it,  that  magnesian  and  that  arrow- 
root." 

I  went  back  into  the  tent  for  my  parasol,  and  to  tell  Boy. 
I  hadn't  got  halfway  down  the  slope  before  I  saw  that  I 
had  done  well  not  to  bring  him ;  the  bend  of  my  arm  across 
which  the  jacket  lay  was  wet  with  perspiration;  I  was 
afraid  it  would  come  through  my  clean  shirtwaist,  and  I 
must  save  a  decently  fresh  appearance  for  the  trip.  I 
shifted  the  coat  to  the  other  arm.  That  morning  the  path 
from  store  to  camp  was  travelled  by  scores  of  restless, 
aimless-seeming  figures,  and  every  foot  that  was  set  down 
raised  a  puff  of  dust.  I  found  them  weaving  about  in 
front  of  the  store,  while  on  up  the  line  toward  the  office, 
where  the  committee  was  to  meet  Mr.  Stanley  at  ten 
o'clock,  the  crowd  was  still  thicker.  Everywhere  dust  set- 
tled on  little  dingy-white  Persian  and  Hindoo  turbans, 
Syrian  and  Italian  head  handkerchiefs,  the  faded  blue 
coolie  jackets  of  Chinese,  torn  straw  hats  from  the  five- 
and-ten-cent  counters,  men's  overalls,  the  lank,  patched 
folds  of  women's  gingham  dresses;  but  the  perspiring 


THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

faces,  white,  brown  or  yellow,  young  and  old,  all  wore  the 
same  expression  of  anxiety  and  half-nourished  hope.  I 
felt  almost  like  a  sneak  to  be  leaving  them  in  such  an  hour. 

"Bice !"  I  called,  as  I  caught  sight  of  a  tall  form  ahead 
of  me.  The  big  man  turned,  and  touched  his  hat.  His 
black  face  was  streaming,  but  he  looked  more  wonted  and 
contented  in  the  heat  than  any  white  man  could.  "Bice, 
is  there  any  chance  for  me  to  get  over  to  Corinth  with  my 
baggage  to-day  ?" 

"Not  to-day,  madam.  It's  Sunday.  But  we  have  to 
meet  the  nine  o'clock  train  to-night,  if  that  will  do." 

"Nine  o'clock.  Well,  that  will  have  to  do,"  I  said. 
"Can  you  call  for  me  and  the  things,  up  at  the  camp  ?" 

"Yes,  madam.     I  surely  will." 

Nine  o'clock  that  night!  If  it  hadn't  been  so  hot,  I 
should  have  tried  walking  over.  But  I  couldn't  do  that, 
with  Boyce  already  droopy.  Anyhow,  I  must  get  on  to  the 
store  now  for  Mrs.  Pochin's  errand.  My  foot  was  on  the 
step  of  the  porch  when  I  heard  my  name  called,  and  turned 
to  see  Sonya  Pochin  ducking  through  the  crowd  toward 
me,  panting: 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Baird,  wait  a  minute.  We  want  you  to  meet 

— we  told  him "  She  caught  up  to  me.  "He's  been 

over  every  ranch  in  the  district  now  except  Las  Palmas, 
and  he's  going  through  it  to-day.  Wait.  Here  they  come. 
See — there  by  Vera." 

I  put  down  my  parasol.  There  were  others  with  Vera, 
pickers  in  their  Sunday  clothes,  but  the  tall  figure  nearest 
her;  immaculate  in  all  that  heat  and  dust,  a  light  coat  over 
the  silk-shirted  arm,  a  straw  hat  carried,  looked  like  a 
visitant  from  Coronado.  This  must  be  the  man  from  the 
Bureau  of  Labour  at  Washington.  As  we  waited,  he 
stopped  at  a  low  roadster  that  I  had  noticed  standing  be- 
side the  way,  stowed  some  papers  in  its  pockets,  and  turned 
to  come  on.  Then,  at  a  flash,  in  spite  of  time  and  change, 
I  saw  who  it  was.  I  stood  there,  just  blunt  and  stupid. 


"HOW  WAS  IT — WHEKE  HAVE  YOU  BEEN,  JOE  f       I 
ASKED.       "WE'VE    BEEN   SO   UNEASY    ABOUT  YOU " 


THE  COMMITTEE  295 

Sonya's  "Joe  said  you  went  to  school  with  him.  We  didn't 
want  you  to  miss  him.  Oh,  he's  so  wonderful!  Should 
you  have  known  him  again  \  Of  course  not,"  came  vaguely 
to  my  ears. 

Should  I  have  known  him  again  ?  Yes,  instantly,  in 
this  world  or  any  other — this  could  be  nobody  but  Philip. 
The  next  dizzy  moment  I  was  shaking  hands  with  him, 
and  he  was  saying  that  he  had  seen  Boyce  up  at  the  camp 
and  the  child  looked  like  me. 

There  isn't  anything  to  tell  about  such  a  meeting  as  that. 
I  don't  know  what  I  said,  how  I  acted,  or  much  about  how 
anybody  else  there  acted.  The  poor  little  instant  of  time 
had  enough  to  do  to  bridge  the  gulf  between  this  steady- 
eyed  man  and  the  battling,  outlawed  boy  I  had  last  seen. 

There  came  to  me — trying  to  get  hold  of  myself  and  ap- 
pear reasonably  composed — a  curious,  fleeting  remem- 
brance of  Frank  Hollis  Dale  at  his  haughtiest,  charging 
up  and  down  the  room,  spitting  out  those  scornful  criti- 
cisms of  our  western  crudeness.  Well,  here  was  no  crude- 
ness.  This  was  a  man  to  stand  comparisons. 

Looking  at  him,  I  knew  in  what  spirit  he  had  demanded 
and  taken  from  his  parents  those  four  lavishly  supplied 
years  of  eastern  culture.  And,  man  or  boy,  a  successful 
figure  on  his  own,  or  a  son  in  rebellion,  Philip  was  not  the 
kind  of  person  you'd  enjoy  exhibiting  your  failures  be- 
fore. Back  there  in  Miss  Chandler's  room,  how  I  had 
winced  to  hear  that,  after  all  these  years,  he  had  got  his 
first  direct  word  of  me  from  so  discreditable  a  source.  But 
here  I  was  now  face  to  face  with  him — a  hop  picker  on  his 
father's  ranch !  It  seemed  to  me  that  his  own  manner  was 
perfect,  unconscious,  exactly  right — just  the  way  he  should 
have  treated  an  old  friend  whom  he  had  not  seen  for  years. 
Perhaps  his  very  composure  and  Tightness  it  was  that  first 
choked  me  past  speech  and  then  set  me  off  saying : 

"Fm  leaving  Las  Palmas.  Boyce  isn't  well.  We're 
going  as  soon  as  we  can  get  away." 


296  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

"Oh,"  cried  Vera,  "we'll  miss  you  awfully!  But,  of 
course,  you  ought  to  go  if  you  can."  She  stole  a  side  glance 
at  Philip.  "Children  have  got  no  business  in  a  place  like 
this.  They're  all  getting  sick." 

"Leo's  worse,"  Sonya  broke  in.  "When  we  came  past 
the  house  mother  said  you  were  going  to  try  to  get 
some  things  for  him,  Mrs.  Baird.  Did  you  have  any 
luck?" 

"I  was  just  going  to  try,"  I  said,  glad  of  the  interrup- 
tion. We  faced  around  toward  the  store,  and  there  was 
Milt  Stanley  stepping  out,  pulling  the  big  doors  together 
preparatory  to  locking  them. 

"Did  you  want  Milt  ?  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  ?" 
The  courteous  helpfulness  of  Philip's  manner  reproved  the 
jerky  coldness  of  mine  and  increased  my  confusion.  With 
an  incoherent  "Never  mind,"  I  left  him  standing  there 
with  the  Pochin  girls,  the  idle,  uneasy,  waiting  crowd 
watching  me  as  I  went  toward  the  store  door. 

"Stop  a  minute,  please,  Milt,"  I  said.  "I  want  to 
get " 

Milt  checked  the  key  he  was  about  to  pull  out  and  looked 
over  his  shoulder,  past  me,  to  Philip.  You  never  saw  a 
man  so  staggered. 

"Well!"  he  said,  blankly.  "Where'd  you  drop  from, 
Phil?" 

"Good-morning,"  came  the  perfectly  colourless  response. 
"Gallic  wants  something,  Milt." 

"Gallic  wants "  Mr.  Stanley's  brother  and  the 

manager  of  Las  Palmas  ranch  turned  his  nervous  atten- 
tion to  me.  "Well,  what  is  it  ?" 

"Things  for  some  sick  children  up  at  camp."  Still 
flustered,  he  unlocked  and  threw  open  the  door.  "Have 
you  got  arrowroot  and  magnesia  ?" 

"Nuh."    He  kept  looking  past  me  at  Philip. 

"Let  me  use  the  'phone,  then.  I'll  see  if  I  could  get 
them  in  Corinth." 


THE  COMMITTEE  297 

The  grinning,  observant  crowd  in  the  store  porch  li°- 
tened  while  he  quibbled: 

"It's  Sunday.     Groceries  wouldn't  be " 

"The  store  I'd  want  would  be  open  on  Sunday,"  I  said, 
impatiently.  "I'll  just  see  if  I  can  get  these  things." 

"What  good'll  that  do?"  Plainly  the  crowd  worried 
him.  "Say,  come  in — just  you  and  Phil,"  he  suggested. 

I  drew  back ;  Milt  stood  uncertain  in  the  middle  of  the 
doorway ;  Philip  passed  over  an  awkward  moment  by  say- 
ing, easily: 

"Can  I  do  the  'phoning  for  you,  Callie  ?  Give  me  your 
list;  I'll  attend  to  it." 

Here  was  the  test.  The  crowd  stopped  grinning  as  Milt 
made  his  declaration: 

"Not  over  the  store  'phone.  I  told  her  it  wouldn't  do 
any  good.  Even  if  it  wasn't  Sunday — we  don't  allow  the 
Corinth  storekeepers  to  deliver  on  the  ranch." 

"Yah!"  came  a  voice  from  the  roadway.  "Now  you 
got  it !" 

"You  don't  what!"  Philip  ejaculated,  coldly. 

"Don't  let  any  grocer's  wagon  from  Corinth — or  any- 
where else — on  this  ranch,"  repeated  Milt,  doggedly. 
"Those  are  the  orders,"  he  added,  trying  to  speak  with  dig- 
nity, but  breaking  down  into  a  hurried,  "I'll  get  the  stuff 
for  them  some  way,  Phil.  Give  me  that  list." 

"A  doctor,  too,"  I  put  in,  and  they  cheered  me.  It  made 
Milt  mad.  He  forgot  Philip  for  the  moment,  and  began, 
querulously: 

"Now,  see  here,  Callie  Boyce;  you're  taking  too  much 
on  yourself.  There's  no  sickness  in  the  camp.  I  can't  call 
a  doctor  for  folks  that'll  never  pay  him.  Ten  chances  to 
one,  if  I  did  call  him,  he  wouldn't  come." 

I  was  a  little  surprised  that  Philip  answered  that;  his 
tone  was  low,  but  those  in  the  porch  kept  very  still  to  hear 
him. 

"Your  position's  not  legal,  Milt,"  he  said.    "You  can't 


298  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

do  that.  You'd  better  let  her  order  what  they  need 
over  your  'phone — or  you  order  it  for  her,  here  and 
now." 

"I—TA  better  ?"  Milt  spluttered.  "I've  got  no  author- 
ity. Talk  to  your  father  about  it."  He  came  out,  pulled 
the  door  shut,  locked  it,  and  dropped  the  key  in  his  pocket. 
He  held  his  head  down  and  wouldn't  look  at  anybody. 
"Talk  to  your  father,"  he  repeated. 

"Where'll  I  find  him  at  this  time  of  the  morning?" 
asked  Philip.  "Have  they  gone  to  church  yet  ?" 

"No.  That  da — the  pickers'  committee's  to  meet  him  at 
the  office  at  ten.  He'd  be  there  by  now." 

"Stanley's  meetin'  the  committee !"  Instantly  the  whole 
crowd  surged  up  the  line  toward  the  office  in  a  solid  mass. 
Somewhere  along  the  way  I  lost  sight  of  Milt;  when  we 
got  to  the  foot  of  the  steps  the  Pochin  girls  were  not  near 
me.  Our  numbers,  added  to  those  already  in  front  of  the 
little  frame  building,  made  a  jam.  Philip  got  halfway  up 
the  steps,  and  turned  back  for  me.  I  could  see  through  the 
open  door  and  windows  Father  Abraham,  Paul  Cluett, 
Barney  Monroe  and  the  others  inside  there,  looking  dread- 
fully strung  up  and  excited. 

"No— no,"  I  called  to  Philip ;  "I'll  not  come.  I'd  only 
be  in  the  way." 

He  held  out  his  hand  toward  me,  and  was  speaking.  I 
couldn't  hear  what  he  said  for  the  talking  and  moving  all 
about.  But  those  back  of  me  pushed  me  on.  I  was  inside 
the  office  when  Mr.  Stanley's  car  finally  came  down  the 
drive,  stopped  at  the  steps,  and  he  and  his  constable  got 
out.  Brockaw,  ahead,  was  between  Philip  and  his  father. 
The  elder  Stanley,  as  fine-looking  as  ever,  and  as  care- 
fully dressed,  his  hair  a  little  greyer  than  when  I  had  last 
seen  him,  was  almost  at  the  doorway  when,  looking  across 
Brockaw's  shoulder,  he  saw  his  son.  He  stopped  short  in 
his  tracks,  and  seemed  to  forget  about  the  committee  that 
was  waiting  for  him. 


THE  COMMITTEE  299 

"Well,  Philip,"  he  said,  "this  is  a  surprise.  Have  you 
been  up  to  see  your  mother  yet?" 

"Good-morning,  sir."  There  was  no  offence  in  Philip's 
tone,  but  I  could  see  Mr.  Stanley  stiffen  as  that  uncom- 
promising "sir"  came  out.  Then  his  eye  reached  me,  and 
lighted  fierily.  He  hardly  seemed  to  hear  as  his  son  went 
on: 

"I  didn't  come  to  see  mother,  or  yourself,  this  time. 
I'm  not  on  your  ranch  as  a  visitor.  I  came " 

"I  can  see  what  you  came  for,"  the  older  voice  cut  him 
off;  "I  don't  need  to  be  told,"  pushing  past  him  toward 
Barney  and  the  others.  "These  gentlemen  friends  of 
yours,  too  ?"  over  his  shoulder,  sarcastically.  "You  mixed 
up  in  this  business  ?" 

Waiting  for  no  answer,  still  with  his  back  to  Philip, 
confronting  the  committee  with  angry  contempt,  he  jerked 
a  long  envelope  out  of  his  side  pocket  and  tossed  it  over 
on  the  desk  by  the  window. 

"There's  your  paper,"  he  said.    "I've  read  it." 

Dead  silence.     Then: 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  for  us?"  Paul  Cluett 
asked. 

"Do  ?"  Mr.  Stanley  had  plainly  studied  that  despised 
list  of  demands,  for  he  named  and  answered  them  in  order. 
"Free  drinking  water !"  he  snorted.  "The  wells  are  free. 
A  clean  camp!  How's  any  employer  to  get  it  or  keep  it 
for  a  herd  of  tramps  ?  I'll  do  my  part  toward  cleaning  up 
the  camp.  We'll  see  what  you'll  do.  More  pay?"  His 
voice  sharpened.  "Las  Palmas  is  giving  the  right  rate  for 
picking.  You'll  not  get  another  cent  out  of  me — not  a 
cent." 

It  seemed  to  me  I  couldn't  bear  to  stand  there  and  look 
on  at  the  defeat  and  humiliation  I  saw  coming  to  the  com- 
mittee that  poor,  bent,  old  Father  Abraham  had  left  a  help- 
less, scared  wife  and  sick  children  to  serve  on.  I  turned 
and  tried  quietly  to  get  out.  By  the  time  I  brought  up  a 


300  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

little  nearer  the  door,  but  wedged  in  tighter  than  ever, 
black  little  Barney  Monroe  was  demanding: 

"That's  the  word  we  get,  is  it?  We've  asked  three 
things ;  two  of  them  you  turn  down  cold,  do  you  ?  We  can 
tell  our  people  that,  huh  ?" 

"If  you  was  to  clean  up,  when  would  you  do  it,  any- 
how?" Cluett  asked.  "When  would  we  get  the  common 
human  decencies  for  that  camp  and  for  the  fields  ?" 

"When  I  can  get  the  lumber  and  the  workmen,"  snapped 
Mr.  Stanley. 

"That's  no  more  than  you  promised  me  three  days  ago — 
that's  nothing,"  said  Monroe. 

"Your  camp's  in  a  hell  of  a  fix  for  garbage  service," 
Cluett  went  steadily  on,  as  though  no  one  else  had  spoken. 
"You  could  give  us  that  to-morrow — to-day — if  you 
wanted  to.  The  sump  holes  around  the  wells  are  swarm- 
ing with  blue  flies " 

"Blue  flies  ?"  Mr.  Stanley  checked  himself  in  the  mo- 
tion of  putting  on  one  of  his  auto  gloves.  He  dragged  it 
off  and  stood  with  it  grasped  in  his  hand,  repeating,  "Blue 
flies  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  Cluett  answered.  "Some  of  'em  butchered 
a  sheep  up  there  day  before  yesterday;  the  offal's  lying 
yet  in  the  sun.  The  entrails " 

"Butchering ! — in  camp !  Making  a  slaughter  house  of 
the  place!"  broke  in  Mr.  Stanley.  "I'll  not  have  that. 
I've  put  men  off  the  ranch  for  less." 

"They've  been  pickin'  your  hops  at  ninety  cents  a  hun- 
dred," Cluett  said,  heavily.  "They  had  to  keep  at  it  from 
dark  to  dark  to  earn  a  livin'  wage.  JN  yet  we  like  to  eat 
meat  once  in  a  while,  same  as  you  do.  They  butchered. 
'N  you  didn't  give  us  any  garbage  service  or  camp  boss. 
~Now  you  seem  to  think  it's  funny  we'd  strike." 

Mr.  Stanley  stood  breathing  hard,  surveying  the  com- 
mittee he  had  agreed  to  meet.  To  me,  the  very  seams  in 
the  back  of  his  coat  showed  an  acute  consciousness  of 


THE  COMMITTEE  301 

Philip  there  within  hearing ;  his  son  at  hand  to  criticise  his 
methods,  perhaps  to  see  him  worsted.  Again  silence — an 
aching  silence — waited  on  what  he  would  say  when  he 
spoke. 

"Strike !"  He  jumped  at  the  word  as  though  it  were 
what  he  had  been  watching  for.  "Do  you  fellows  think 
you  can  stay  on  this  place  and  stir  up  a  strike,  right  before 
my  eyes  ?" 

"Sir,  already  we  have " 

It  was  as  far  as  Father  Abraham  got. 

"You're  discharged,"  Mr.  Stanley  bellowed  at  him — at 
the  entire  committee.  "Get  off  my  ranch." 

"You  can't  make  that  stick,"  said  Cluett.  "We've  all 
paid  our  rent.  We  can  live  here  as  long  as  we " 

"We  can  die  here!"  cut  in  Monroe,  fiercely.  "The 
camp's  a  hell.  We'll  have  a  run  of  typhoid  inside  a  week. 
We've  got  half  a  dozen  sick  children  up  there  now." 

"That's  a  lie,  Barney,  and  you  know  it,"  Milt  Stanley 
whooped  in  from  the  roadway.  Through  the  window  I 
could  see  his  thin,  red,  anxious  face  raised  subserviently 
toward  his  older  brother  in  the  office.  "It's  a  lie,"  he  re- 
peated, but  there  was  no  confidence  in  his  tone.  "There's 
nobody  sick  in  the  camp." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Baird!"  Sonya  Pochin's  clawing  fingers 
were  at  my  shoulder.  "Tell  'em — tell  'em  quick — you 
were  down  at  the  store  for  medicine  and  the  doctor.  Get 
him  to  speak  for  us."  Her  big  black  eyes  flashed  to  Philip, 
who  was  just  out  of  her  reach.  "You  can.  He's  an  old 
friend."  So  far  she  had  whispered ;  now,  in  despair,  her 
voice  soared  out,  "Mr.  Stanley,  your  son  knows  there's 
sickness  in  camp.  He's  been  through  this  morning  and 
seen  the  sick  ones." 

The  owner  of  Las  Palmas  wheeled  to  the  new  issue. 
The  furrows  of  his  face  began  to  purple.  Once  more  he 
seemed  to  forget  everything  else  in  rage  at  his  son.  Philip 
stood  with  an  expressionless  countenance,  braving  him  as 


302  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

I  knew  he  had  always  braved  him  in  the  past  while  his 
father  raged: 

"Don't  you  attempt  to  tell  me  what  you  saw !  On  my 
ranch  with  no  permission — been  through  my  camps  with- 
out a  word  to  me!" 

"See  here,  sir !"  Philip  spoke  with  a  detached  air,  but 
his  voice  had  deepened  a  bit.  "You  know,  and  every  hop 
grower  in  your  district  knows,  that  I  couldn't  accomplish 
what  I  came  for  by  giving  notice  and  asking  permission. 
It's  my  business  to  see  these  camps  as  they  are  and  make 
my  report " 

"Your  business!"  Mr.  Stanley  fumed.  "Your  only 
business  on  Las  Palmas  ranch  is  to  meddle  and  make  me 
trouble.  You've  been  nothing  but  trouble  to  me  since  the 
day  you  were  born.  I  never  want  to  see  your  face  again. 
If  you've  got  any  self-respect,  you'll  get  out  of  here." 

Philip  looked  straight  back  at  him. 

"That  might  suit  you,"  he  said,  "but  I  can't  leave  the 
biggest  labour  camp  in  the  district  out  of  my  report  be- 
cause it's  on  your  place.  I  can't  report  on  it  without  go- 
ing through  it.  I  did  about  half  my  work  this  morning; 
I  expect  to  finish  this  afternoon." 

"You  expect "  Mr.  Stanley  choked  on  his  own 

rage.  "Brockaw " 

"Look  out,  Lucius  Stanley,"  came  Cluett's  taunt.  "You 
ain't  talkin'  to  a  committee  of  poor  devils  of  strikers 
now.  You're  buckin'  Washington !" 

"Brockaw,"  Stanley  wheeled  on  him,  "these  men  here, 
that  are  making  trouble ;  if  they  don't  leave  the  ranch,  any 
or  all  of  them,  arrest  them  as — as  trespassers." 

It  sounded  as  though  he  included  his  son  with  the 
others.  Brockaw,  uncertain,  pushed  forward,  bringing  up 
shoulder  to  shoulder  with  Philip. 

"Uh — uh — arrest  now?"  he  blundered,  stupidly. 

Philip's  attitude  was  still  one  of  entire  unconcern.  He 
looked  his  father  in  the  face  half  pityingly,  suggesting: 


THE  RIOT  303 

"Well — not  without  a  warrant.  You  don't  run  things 
quite  that  way  on  Las  Palraas  ranch,  do  you  ?" 

At  the  check  the  old  jeer  broke  out  between  the  con- 
stable and  the  pickers  he  was  hired  to  intimidate. 
Brockaw's  dull  face  reddened  to  cries  of, 

"Watch  him  crawfish  now!" 

"Hey,  Brocky,  better  go  back  to  skinning  mules !" 

With  an  awkward  flourish  of  the  arm  the  constable 
jerked  out  his  pistol.  It  caught  in  my  sleeve. 

"Stop  him!"  screamed  Father  Abraham.  "He'll  shoot 
the  girl !" 

"Look  what  you're  about,  you  fool — be  careful  with  that 
gun !"  Philip  said  to  him,  contemptuously.  My  heart 
leaped  when  he  put  himself  between  me  and  the 
constable,  but  afterwards  I  wasn't  sure  he  noticed 
whether  it  was  I  or  Sonya  Pochin  who  had  been  in 
danger. 

Brockaw,  cowed,  confused,  went  straight  on  past,  a  way 
opening  for  the  weapon  in  his  hand,  and  letting  him 
through  the  door.  This  left  Philip  and  his  father  con- 
fronted. We  all  watched,  fascinated,  while  Mr.  Stanley 
tried  to  speak,  and  couldn't  for  fury.  Then  suddenly  a 
kind  of  convulsion  went  over  his  features;  his  arm  shot 
up,  and  the  heavy  auto  glove  he  held  slapped  Philip  across 
the  face. 

"Get  out  of  my  way!"  It  was  hardly  more  than  a 
strangled  whisper.  They  couldn't  hear  it  from  the  road- 
way ;  they  couldn't  see  what  had  happened ;  but  they  yelled 
as  he  came  out  to  them  on  the  heels  of  his  constable  and 
got  into  the  car.  They  were  yelling  still  as  the  car  made 
speed  down  the  road,  both  occupants  turning  once  and 
again  to  look  back. 

Philip  put  his  hand  to  the  red  mark  on  his  cheek.  He 
glanced  about  sharply,  saying: 

"I'll  ask  those  who  saw  that  kindly  not  to  mention  it 
outside  this  room.  It  could  only  do  harm." 


304  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

Monroe  had  sprung  on  a  chair  and  was  craning  his  neck 
to  watch  the  automobile  off. 

"All  right,  sir.  You  heard  that,  boys.  Keep  your 
mouths  shut.  Gawd,  we'll  have  our  hands  full,  anyhow — 
they've  gone  down  the  Corinth  road!" 

"Pave  they?" 

"Lemme  see !" 

"Look,  that's  their  dust — at  the  turn  there." 

"Gone  for  reinforcements.  They'll  have  the  sheriff  and 
his  deputies  on  us  before  the  day's  over !" 

"We're  in  for  it.  Get  busy,  boys.  We've  got  a  right  to 
strike.  We'll  stand  solid  on  that." 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE   EIOT 

WELL — it  was  fight  now !  The  strikers  didn't  know 
what  to  expect ;  as  Cluett  had  said,  they  could  only 
"get  busy."  They  poured  out  of  the  little  office  like  wasps 
from  a  nest  that's  been  shaken,  Sonya  Pochin  right  up  at 
the  front,  talking  furiously.  In  the  road  they  scattered, 
going  from  group  to  group,  gesticulating,  shouting  out 
just  what  had  happened  to  the  committee,  begging,  be- 
seeching the  pickers  to  stick  together. 

"We'll  get  what  we're  after,  yet,"  was  Monroe's  slogan. 

"We'll  catch  hell  if  we  lay  down  now,"  Cluett  warned. 

"Be  men.  Stand  up  for  your  women  and  your  sick 
children !"  Sonya's  voice  rose  shrill  above  them. 

"But  no  violence — no  violence,  daughter,"  Father  Abra- 
ham came  in  timorously.  "They  have  gone  for  the  con- 
stabulary." 

"Sure,  no  violence !"  they  jeered  all  around  him.  "But 
not  another  pound  of  hops  picked  till  Stanley  does  the 
decent  thing." 

This  suddenly  left  Philip  and  me  practically  alone  in 
the  office.  Certainly  nothing  could  have  been  further  from 
my  intention  than  to  speak  as  though  Philip  had  done 
something  to  save  my  life.  But  in  the  agonising  em- 
barrassment that  descended  on  me  I  found  myself  doing 
just  that,  and  in  my  frantic  efforts  to  flounder  out  I  wound 
up,  "I'm  afraid  my  being  here  made  your  father 

angrier "  and  then  just  choked  down  to  silence  in  a 

blind  passion  of  chagrin. 

Philip  had  been  looking  at  me  as  though  he  didn't  see 
me.  The  red  mark  showed  up  plain  on  his  cheek,  but  the 
fighting  glare  with  which  any  spirited  man  will  meet  a 

305 


306  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

blow  in  the  face  was  dying  out  of  his  eyes.  He  even 
smiled  a  little  as  I  limped  to  my  miserable,  abashed  con- 
clusion. 

"Oh,  no,"  he  said,  "you're  not  to  blame,  Gallic.  That's 
nothing  new  in  the  Stanley  family.  Nice  bunch  of  wild 
animals — I  should  think  you'd  admire  them.  Well,  for- 
get it— I  do." 

It  was  one  of  those  wretched  moments  when  the  only 
things  that  come  into  your  head  to  say  are  the  things  you 
mustn't  say.  We  moved  down  the  office  steps  together, 
Philip  starting  back  for  his  work  as  though  nothing  had 
happened.  We  walked  side  by  side  as  far  as  his  machine 
— he  was  off  for  the  fields  and  the  outlying  portions  of  the 
ranch.  I  was  glad  when  he  lifted  his  hat  and  left  me. 

I  went  on  up  to  Boyce  and  the  camp,  trying  feverishly 
to  forget  my  own  inward  disturbance  in  the  immediate 
crash  of  the  affairs  of  those  about  me.  I  couldn't  get  away 
from  the  place  till  night,  and  might  as  well  make  myself 
of  use  and  do  what  I  could  for  those  who  were  worse  off 
than  I  was. 

I  had  to  take  Boy  with  me  on  some  of  my  errands ;  about 
two  o'clock  he  went  to  sleep,  which  was  a  relief,  though 
he  woke  up  cross  and  feverish.  There  was  nothing  to  be 
got  for  the  sick  children ;  we  had  to  do  the  best  we  could 
with  thickened  milk  and  browned  flour.  Joe  Ed,  who  said 
he  was  "no  sea-lawyer,"  did  not  take  part  in  the  arguing 
and  agitating,  but  worked  like  a  nailer  helping  us  women. 
Philip  had  got  back  and  was  evidently  giving  the  camp  a 
final  going  over.  Now  and  again  we  got  sight  of  him,  a 
crowd  always  at  his  heels,  an  interpreter  beside  him  when 
needed.  Quietness  and  confidence  and  strength  went  with 
him  wherever  he  was.  I  couldn't  get  over  the  wonder  of 
it — that  this  should  be  the  spoiled,  irresponsible  boy  I  had 
last  seen. 

As  we  worked,  I  began  to  realise  that  Joe  Ed  had  some- 
thing on  his  mind,  and  at  last  it  came  out. 


THE  RIOT  307 

"I'm  glad  I  got  my  tip  from  Louisiana  Lou  about  the 
man  in  the  case.  It's  duly  filed  for  reference."  He  set 
down  the  bucket  of  water  I  had  asked  for,  glanced  at  me 
swiftly,  then  looked  away.  "I  don't  suppose  you've  been 
losing  any  sleep  considering  that  dazzling  offer  of  mine, 
made  in  good  faith  and  in  the  public  square  at  San  Vi- 
cente some  months  ago,  but  I've  been  kind  of  hanging  on 
to  that  idea — at  times.  I'll  drop  it  now." 

"Oh,  Joe  Ed,  don't  be  ridiculous,"  I  remonstrated,  my 
face  stinging  with  the  humiliation  I  had  been  trying  to 
forget.  "There's  no  man  in  the  case.  Of  course,  I  knew 
you  weren't  in  earnest  that  evening.  You  were  just  ex- 
cited  " 

"And  a  drink  ahead,"  he  supplied.  "Say  it.  You 
thought,  as  Barney  says,  'it  was  the  liquor  talking,'  did 
you?  Well,  it  wasn't.  When  you're  hanging  up  your 
scalps,  you  can  count  mine.  I  don't  say  I  ever  had  any 
hope — but  it  just  wasn't  in  me  to  resist  the  impulse." 

All  day,  off  and  on,  there  had  been  singing  and  speaking 
at  the  dance  platform.  Now,  about  five  o'clock,  the  big- 
gest crowd  they'd  had  was  gathering.  Everybody  who 
wasn't  over  there  seemed  to  be  on  the  way. 

"Let's  us  go — bring  the  kid  and  come  on,"  said  Joe. 

"I  want  to  go,"  Boyce  put  in,  fretfully,  and  we  started. 
Halfway  there  we  overtook  Bice.  I  stopped  to  speak  to 
him.  The  strike  had  tied  up  his  wagon,  as  well  as  every- 
thing else. 

"I  can  carry  the  things  over  for  you,"  he  offered. 

"Yes,"  Joe  Ed  settled  it,  "we  can  pack  your  stuff  to 
Corinth — it'll  be  cool  after  dark — if  we're  not  all  in  jail 
before  that  time." 

Bice  went  on  with  his  great  swinging  stride ;  Joe  and  I 
followed  more  slowly.  Boy  caught  sight  of  a  child  up  on 
the  platform  that  he  knew,  let  go  my  hand,  and  before  I 
could  stop  him  had  dodged  under  elbows  and  worked  his 
way  till  he  stood  just  in  front  of  the  speaker. 


308  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

When  we  got  into  that  crowd  of  two  thousand  hop 
pickers,  nearly  half  of  them  women  and  children,  who 
knew  nothing  about  going  on  strike,  I  felt  the  queer  thrill 
that  made  it  different  from  any  other  gathering  of  people. 
Barney  Monroe's  hoarse,  tired  voice  slugging  away  with 
undiminished  passion,  the  nervous  strain  of  those  who  lis- 
tened, it  was  like  a  revival  meeting. 

"If  we're  men,"  Barney  yelled,  huskily,  "we'll  strike; 
we'll  refuse  to  pick  these  hops  till  Stanley's  met  our  con- 
ditions; we'll  take  care  of  our  women  and  children.  If 
we're  mice,  we'll  give  up  to  let  them  work  in  this  kind  of 
a  hell.  See  here" — he  reached  down  suddenly,  swung 
Boy  up  and  held  him  high — "it's  for  the  kids  we're  strik- 
ing. It's  for  them." 

"Joe,"  I  whispered,  catching  his  arm  and  shaking  it, 
"if  they  bring  in  officers  on  these  people,  there'll  be  blood- 
shed." 

"Sure  not,"  he  cried;  "not  in  a  hundred  years.  Don't 
you  go  getting  scared  again.  Nobody  here's  armed. 
There's  no  talk  of  fight." 

"I'm  not  scared,"  I  said,  still  speaking  low.  "I  wasn't 
scared  last  night." 

"Then  what  was  the  matter  ?" 

"Oh — I'd  just  found  that  Lucius  Stanley  owns  this 
ranch.  That  was  the  first  time  I'd  seen  him — and 
his  wife.  It  upset  me.  Long  ago — when  I  was  living 
in  Stanleyton — we  had — there  was  something  un- 
pleasant  " 

"I  understand,"  said  Joe  Ed.  "By  the  way,  where  is 
He?  Gone?" 

We  both  looked  around,  and  Joe  answered  his  own  ques- 
tion, with: 

"There  he  is." 

Coming  along  the  well-path,  some  papers  and  books  in 
his  hand,  moving  with  the  air  of  a  man  whose  work  is 
completed,  I  saw  Philip. 


THE  RIOT  309 

Again  I  experienced  that  curious  stoppage  of  the  fac- 
ulties. The  big  crowd  seemed  unreal.  The  noises  dwin- 
dled. Vaguely  I  knew  that  there  was  a  call  for  singers, 
and  that  Joe  Ed  had  left  me  to  respond  to  it.  A  voice  up 
there  cried  out: 

"Sing— sing  'Mr.  Block/  " 

I  saw  Joe  Ed  spring  high  on  the  musicians'  bench, 
beckoning  and  calling  to  the  English  boy  drawing  a  bucket 
of  water  over  at  the  well.  For  the  first  time  I  had  an 
overwhelming  impulse  to  run  away.  I  looked  around  for 
someone  to  bring  Boyce  down.  On  the  instant  Philip 
came  through  the  fringes  of  the  crowd  and  spoke  to  me. 

"I'm  glad  I  found  you,  Callie.  I  didn't  want  to  go 
without  saying  good-bye." 

"Good-bye,"  I  said,  mechanically,  and  put  out  a  limp 
hand. 

"Where's  the  boy  ?"  he  asked,  like  any  other  friend. 

"Up  there."  I  indicated  the  platform.  "I  was  look- 
ing for  someone  to  get  him  down  for  me." 

"I'll  go  and  fetch  him,"  and  he  was  pushing  his  way 
up  the  steps. 

When  he  was  gone  I  became  aware  of  a  curious  stir  and 
grumbling  among  the  people  back  of  me.  I  twisted  around 
to  look.  At  first  I  couldn't  see  anything  for  the  crowd. 
Then  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  an  automobile  coming  across 
the  field.  There  were  men  in  it.  The  sawed-off  barrels  of 
repeating  shotguns  showed  above  their  shoulders. 

"For  God's  sake,  look  at  the  pump  guns!"  yelled  a 
voice.  The  crush  about  me  swayed;  I  saw  a  second  car, 
also  full  of  men.  It  seemed  ridiculous,  impossible,  but 
one  of  the  figures  beside  Mr.  Stanley  on  the  back  seat  was 
Harvey  Watkins.  Milt  and  Brockaw  were  in  front.  I 
turned  toward  the  stand.  When  I  finally  could  see  any- 
thing of  Boy,  Philip  had  him,  and  waved  reassuringly.  I 
looked  back  in  the  direction  of  the  motors.  They  had 
stopped  at  the  edge  of  the  crowd ;  the  men  in  the  first  one 


310  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

jumped  down  and  tried  to  make  their  way  in  to  the  plat- 
form. Two  of  them  drew  clubs  and  began  striking  right 
and  left  into  the  press  as  they  came. 

"Look  at  that  damned  sheriff  and  his  deputy,"  groaned 
a  voice  beside  me,  as  the  man  ahead  shouted : 

"I  call  upon  this  meeting  to  disperse!"  The  crack  of 
his  club  on  someone's  head  emphasised  the  words. 

The  full  terror  of  the  situation  came  to  me  where  I 
stood  wedged  in,  unable  to  get  either  forward  or  back. 
Then  a  shot  roared  out — fired,  they  said  afterward,  by  an 
officer  on  the  outskirts,  over  the  heads  of  the  crowd,  to  in- 
timidate them. 

Intimidate?  It  maddened  them.  It  was  the  opening 
crash  of  a  horrible  bedlam.  I  was  shoved  along  in  the 
yelling  rush  toward  the  platform  steps,  up  which  the  of- 
ficers were  fighting  their  way.  Back  in  Mr.  Stanley's 
automobile  somebody  was  standing  up  shouting,  "Keep 
the  peace,  boys — keep  the  peace !"  I  got  sight  of  Philip 
bringing  Boy,  arms  clutched  tight  around  the  neck  of  his 
rescuer,  face  burrowed  in  against  him.  They  were  get- 
ting across  toward  me  when,  with  a  splintering  crash,  the 
singers'  bench  broke  down,  and  those  who  had  jumped  on 
it  to  see  better  were  thrown  to  their  knees  in  the  midst  of 
a  howling,  fighting  mob.  My  struggle  in  the  direction  of 
the  steps  had  brought  me  right  to  the  elbow  of  one  of  the 
officers.  At  the  instant  I  got  a  second  glimpse  of  Philip's 
bare  head  and  Boy's  little  towsled  poll,  this  fellow  shouted 
to  Brockaw: 

"There's  your  man.  You've  got  the  papers  now.  Ar- 
rest him !"  And  he  lifted  his  gun  and  pointed  it  straight 
at  those  two  heads! 

I  threw  myself  toward  the  man  as  well  as  I  could  for 
the  hampering  bodies  of  those  about  me,  clutched  at  the 
pointing  weapon,  came  short,  clawed  for  his  arm.  He 
cursed  me,  and  turned  the  gun  on  me.  But  I  was  past 
terror.  Let  it  be  that,  then — let  it  be  that !  My  eyes  were 


THE  RIOT  311 

closing  when  a  great  black  arm  reached  down  from  the 
platform  across  me,  caught  the  gun  barrel,  wrenched  it 
away,  and,  as  I  crouched  there  staring,  there  came  a  roar 
in  my  ears  like  the  dissolution  of  earth,  and  the  man  who 
had  threatened  me  crumpled  down  the  steps  among  the 
trampling  feet. 

Bice  dropped  the  gun  and  reached  for  me  to  lift  me  up 
to  safety.  There  was  another  roar  back  of  me,  and  a 
charge  of  buckshot,  fired  close  at  hand,  tore  open  his  great 
brown  breast  so  horribly  that,  for  a  moment,  the  quiver- 
ing, beating  heart  was  seen.  Then  he  rolled  over  and 
over,  down  out  of  sight. 

Where  was  Philip  ?    Where  was  Boy  ? 

With  a  rush  the  officers  had  finally  gained  the  platform. 
There  they  fought  and  stamped,  jerking  Father  Abraham 
from  the  box  he  had  been  standing  on,  hustling  him  for- 
ward to  the  steps.  They  got  handcuffs  on  him  and  on 
Monroe.  Again  and  again  shots  sounded.  At  one  of  them 
the  man  who  had  been  standing  up  in  the  Stanley  auto, 
with  his  futile  "Keep  the  peace,  boys — keep  the  peace," 
fell  headlong. 

Then  suddenly  the  whole  crowd  on  the  platform  seemed 
to  surge  forward  and  down  the  steps,  stumbling  on  the 
dead  men  that  lay  there.  Somebody  caught  me  round  the 
waist  and  hauled  me  to  one  side.  It  was  Sonya ;  Philip 
was  behind  her  with  Boy.  The  three  of  us  went  with  the 
running  mass  till  the  press  thinned  a  bit  and  we  could 
halt. 

"Muvver!  Muwer!"  Boyce  was  crying. 

"Yes,  young  man,  mother's  here."  Philip  shifted  the 
child  in  his  arms  as  we  stood  and  looked. 

The  officers,  with  their  prisoners,  were  fighting  a  way 
back  to  the  empty  auto.  Paul  Cluett  came  running  from 
down  the  road  somewhere — he  had  not  been  at  the  meeting 
at  all.  They  met  him,  handcuffed  him,  and  took  him 
along. 


312  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

The  Stanley  car  with  Mr.  Stanley  and  Harvey  Watkins 
in  it,  and  Milt  driving,  had  instantly  picked  up  their  man 
who  had  been  shot,  and,  backing  swiftly  out  of  the  crowd, 
speeded  away  up  toward  the  palm  avenue.  Half  a  dozen 
were  down,  on  the  steps  of  the  platform  and  near  there. 
Men,  women,  children,  were  crouching,  screaming,  or  run- 
ning and  nursing  wounds. 

"Oh,  look!"  wailed  Sonya.  There  in  front  of  us  on 
the  well-path  the  English  boy  lay,  his  pail  of  water  over- 
turned beside  him.  She  stooped  to  see.  "They've  killed 
him,"  she  cried.  "He's  dead." 

The  camp  was  a  wretched  place,  but  it  was  the  only 
refuge  those  who  had  been  at  the  meeting  had.  Some  ter- 
rified souls  were  running  toward  the  fields;  a  few  dis- 
tracted figures  flying  right  down  the  open  road;  but  most 
of  them  turned  instinctively  to  their  shacks  and  tents.  We 
moved  in  that  direction,  Philip  still  carrying  Boyce.  The 
tents  were  emptying  out  every  living  thing  in  them  except 
those  too  sick  to  move.  They  came  screeching,  mad  with 
terror.  Little  old  Mrs.  Pochin,  her  grey  hair  flying,  ran 
up  to  us. 

"Where  is  your  father — and  Bernie — and  Ambrose  ? 
Have  they  killed  your  father  ?  Have  they  taken  him  ?" 

"Yes — they  took  father."  Sonya  caught  hold  of  the 
little  shaking  creature  and  steadied  her.  "But  our  men 
are  not  done  fighting  yet — see  there." 

Down  the  road  toward  the  store,  at  the  plunging  run 
of  a  very  scared  man,  went  Brockaw,  a  half-dozen  strikers 
after  him. 

"Oh,  they've  got  nothing  but  sticks  and  stones.  What 
can  they  do  against  guns?" 

Brockaw  reached  the  store,  scuttled  around  to  its  back, 
ran  in  and  barricaded  himself.  The  strikers  battered  at 
the  doors  and  windows. 

Among  those  that  came  with  us  or  streamed  past  us 
toward  the  camp  were  a  great  many — men,  women  and 


THE  RIOT  313 

children — with  gunshot  wounds.  They  dragged  them- 
selves along,  were  helped,  or  carried.  One  man,  his  whole 
arm  torn  off  by  a  bunched  charge  of  buckshot,  was  bleed- 
ing frightfully.  When  those  who  carried  him  came  up 
with  us,  Philip  passed  Boy  to  me  and  stopped  them.  I 
left  him  there  helping  to  rig  a  tourniquet.  The  whistling 
breath  and  great  wrenching  groans  of  the  wounded  man 
sounded  after  us  as  we  went  on. 

Meek,  quiet,  efficient  little  Mrs.  Pochin  was  like  a  crazed 
thing.  Those  of  us  who  kept  some  remnant  of  our  wits 
about  us  had  our  hands  full.  Nobody  that  I  asked  knew 
anything  of  Joe  Ed ;  the  last  seen  of  him  was  just  before 
the  singers'  bench  went  down.  When  we  looked  back  to- 
ward the  scene  of  the  riot,  there  was  the  second  auto- 
mobile getting  away,  with  its  one  dead  man,  and  the  re- 
maining officers.  Our  dead — Bice  and  the  English  boy — 
were  being  carried  past  the  Pochin  shack  and  to  the  stock- 
ade. We  heard  the  strikers  hallooing  to  those  who  still 
hammered  at  Brockaw's  stronghold,  yelling  at  them  to 
come  and  help,  and  let  the  constable  go. 

The  sun  went  down  on  that  bare,  desolate,  low  hilltop ; 
the  shadows  gathered  over  the  blood  and  tears  and  dismay 
of  a  beaten,  leaderless  horde.  It  seemed  that  doctors  must 
be  got  for  these  wounded;  yet  there  wasn't  a  man  among 
the  strikers  who  would  dare  show  his  face  in  Corinth  that 
night.  Mountains  rolled  off  my  heart  when  Philip,  who 
had  stayed  so  far  to  help  these  poor  creatures,  came  in 
where  Mrs.  Monroe  and  I  were  bandaging  the  bullet- 
shattered  hand  of  that  ten-year-old  boy  who  used  to  put 
records  on  the  phonograph  of  an  evening,  and  told  us  that 
he  would  send  medical  help  from  Corinth. 

"Will  they  come — to  us — f rom  Corinth  ?"  Mrs.  Monroe 
asked,  without  looking  up. 

"I'll  find  someone  who  will,"  he  answered,  as  briefly, 
"whether  it's  from  Corinth,  or  further  on." 

He  went  out,  and  the  sounds  of  his  motor  slowly  died 


314  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

away.  The  dark  hours  that  followed  didn't  seem  like  a 
night  at  all.  They  were  full  of  activity — strange,  furtive 
activity — scared  creatures  stumbling  about  the  camp, 
afraid  to  have  you  offer  them  a  lantern,  skulking  like 
guilty  things  to  hunt  up  their  belongings  and  their  people. 
They  didn't  know  who  they'd  run  against — a  friend  or  an 
officer  of  the  law.  The  wounded  moaned ;  every  now  and 
then  a  frightened  woman  would  scream  out,  startled,  or 
there  would  be  a  muttered  masculine  exclamation  and  the 
sound  of  shuffling  feet.  Through  it  all  was  the  fretful 
cry  of  sick  children  who  had  to  be  neglected. 

There  were  more  than  two  thousand  pickers  on  Las 
Palmas  ranch;  nearly  all  of  them  had  been  at  the  meet- 
ing. Now  the  timid  ones,  who  had  never  had  any  hope  in 
the  strike,  who  were  willing  to  make  any  sort  of  terms, 
anxious  to  stay  and  hold  their  jobs  in  whatever  conditions, 
came  creeping  in  from  the  fields,  or  wherever  they  had 
harboured  during  the  riot,  crawled  into  tents  and  shacks, 
shut  the  doors  or  pulled  the  flaps  together,  and  lay  there 
breathlessly  silent,  taking  no  part  in  what  we  had  to  face. 

The  worst  of  our  work  was  our  ignorance;  we  didn't 
know  whether  what  we  did  was  right  or  wrong.  The  boy 
with  the  shattered  hand  was  motherless;  his  father  had 
been  arrested.  The  child  soon  became  delirious;  then  he 
screamed  till  I  thought  I  should  go  out  of  my  mind.  Mrs. 
Monroe  was  keeping  Boy  with  her  children.  Sonya  Po- 
chin  and  I  were  down  at  the  further  end  of  the  camp,  try- 
ing to  see  if  we  could  do  anything  for  the  man  who  had 
lost  his  arm.  It  seemed  as  though  he  would  die  of  shock. 

"Would  you  go  look  again,  Mrs.  Baird  ?"  Sonya  whis- 
pered. "I  thought  I  heard  a  motor  quite  a  while  ago." 

I  went  and  stood  at  the  tent  door.  There  was  no  wind, 
but  a  queer  little  whispering,  moving  sound  kept  up 
through  all  the  camp.  Here  and  there  the  dimly  luminous 
walls  of  a  tent  showed  where  the  sick  were.  In  one  of  the 
stockades  a  match  would  flash  up  behind  the  burlap  walls, 
and  be  put  out  quickly;  but  there  was  never  a  gleam  in 


THE  RIOT  315 

the  big  black  shadow  over  by  the  tule  shelters  beside  the 
dry  slough  where  the  Orientals  hid  themselves  from  this 
war  of  an  alien  race. 

I  saw  a  light  moving  along  from  the  direction  of  the 
dance  platform.  As  it  came  nearer  I  could  make  out 
Dolph  Flegel,  carrying  a  lantern  in  front  of  three  men — 
Philip  and  a  stranger,  with  Joe  Ed,  white  and  sick-look- 
ing, his  left  arm  in  a  sling,  walking  between  them. 

"Is  that  the  doctor?"  Sonya  called,  softly.  "Here's 
where  he's  wanted." 

"Yes— and  Joe  Ed!"  I  cried. 

As  they  came  up,  I  stepped  aside  to  let  the  stranger 
pass  in  and  Philip  went  with  him.  Joe  Ed  dropped  down 
on  a  soap  box  at  the  tent  door  and  sat  there  a  moment, 
panting. 

"Wounded  on  the  field  of  battle,"  he  said,  looking  down 
at  his  bandaged  arm  with  a  ghost  of  his  old  jauntiness. 

"How  was  it — where  have  you  been,  Joe  ?"  I  asked. 
"We've  been  so  uneasy  about  you — nobody  seen  you." 

"Got  pitched  off  the  platform  when  the  bench  broke 
down.  Five  or  six  fell  on  top  of  me,  busted  this  wing, 
and  kicked  me  plumb  back  out  of  sight  in  the  scramble.  I 
didn't  know  anything  for  quite  some  time.  Stanley  and 
the  doctor  found  me  sitting  up  trying  to  remember  who  I 
was,  and  what  had  happened." 

"A  broken  arm — that's  pretty  bad — out  I'm  glad  it's  no 
worse.  Does  it  hurt  very  much  ?" 

"Not  very — feels  sort  of  funny.  My  head's  a  little 
queer  yet.  I'll  be  all  right — in  the  morning.  I'm  going 
to  take  you  and  the  kid  home  to-morrow — and  that's  a 
cinch." 

"Sonya!"  somebody  hissed  from  the  dark,  and  Mrs. 
Pochin's  haggard  little  face  showed  up  suddenly  in  the 
shine  of  Dolph's  lantern.  "Ah-h !"  She  shrank  a  little ; 
then,  seeing  who  we  were,  "Is  Sonya  here  ?" 

For  answer  I  pointed  inside. 

"Tell  her,  please,  we  go  now.     I  get  at  last  Ambrose 


316  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

and  Bernie,  and  all  the  children.  Vera  and  I,  we  pack 
up.  We  go — just  walking  away  on  our  feet — down  the 
road — in  the  dark.  We  carry  it  that  things  what  we  got. 
Tell  Sonya  she  shall  come." 

I  stepped  inside,  beckoned  Sonya,  and  Philip  came  out 
with  us.  Mrs.  Pochin  was  speaking  to  Joe  Ed. 

"Best  is  you  stay  in  our  house  to-night.  That  boy  can 
bring  your  blankets  over.  It  is,  anyhow,  better  than  the 
stockade — with  no  roof — the  dew  falls  heavy  to-night — 
the  dead  are  laid  out  there." 

"Heh — Bice  and  English !"  sighed  Joe  Ed,  heavily,  get- 
ting to  his  feet.  "Thank  you,  ma'am.  I  reckon  I  had  bet- 
ter get  down,"  and  the  four  of  them  started ;  Philip  walked 
quietly  beside  me. 

"Callie,"  he  spoke  in  a  lowered  tone,  "I  suppose  you 
realise  that  we'll  all  be  detained  here  as  witnesses?" 

"Oh!"  I  pulled  up  in  dismay.  "Shall  we?  I  hadn't 
thought  of  anything  like  that !" 

"Yes,"  he  said ;  then,  indicating  the  group  ahead,  "It's 
what  they're  running  away  from.  It's  a  bad  move  on 
their  part — poor  things;  they'll  only  be  dragged  back — 
and  jailed." 

"You're  sure "  I  began,  haltingly — "but,  of  course." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Philip.  "The  man  that  was  killed  in 
father's  auto  was  the  district  attorney — and  popular — 
had  been  father's  lawyer.  Chavez  county's  wild.  I  talked 
to  Watkins  over  at  Corinth.  His  firm's  acting  for  Las 
Palmas  now." 

"Yes ;  I  saw  Harvey  in  the  car — this  afternoon,"  I  said. 

"Well,  the  inquest's  set  for  ten  o'clock  to-morrow  morn- 
ing. I  hope  you  folks  can  give  your  testimony  and  get  off 
on  the  noon  train.  Watkins  was  inclined  to  be  accommo- 
dating. I  think  he'd  even  take  depositions,  if  the  inquest 
was  delayed." 

"I  do  hope  we  can  get  off  at  noon,"  I  said.  "It  would 
be  miserable  to  be  kept  here." 

"Miserable,"  he  repeated.     "And,  of  course,  you'll  be 


THE  RIOT  317 

brought  back  for  the  trial.  So  shall  I.  It's  hard  luck 
that  I  have  to  testify ;  of  course,  father  will  hold  it  a  per- 
sonal attack  on  him.  My  report  hits  him  hard — and  then 
my  being  there  at  the  moment  of  the  outbreak.  Well,  it 
can't  be  helped." 

I  was  silent  a  long  time,  and  finally  just  said : 

"It's  too  bad." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  threw  it  off  sharply ;  "it's  better 
for  me  that  I  couldn't  get  on  with  father.  Look  what  he's 
made  of  Milt.  His  idea  of  discipline  was  always  a  club." 

"Don't  you  think  he — he  saw — to-day?"  I  suggested, 
hesitantly.  There  was  no  hesitation  in  Philip's, 

"]STo,  they  haven't  learned  anything.  They  were  taken 
by  surprise — they  didn't  think  that  seasonal  workers 
could  get  up  a  genuine  strike — but  they  haven't  learned 
anything.  Watkins  was  there  at  Corinth,  'phoning  to  the 
governor  to  have  the  militia  called  out." 

"Soldiers !"  I  cried,  and  looked  around  at  the  darkened, 
furtive  camp,  scared  to  death,  with  its  dead,  its  sick  and 
wounded. 

"Yes,  soldiers,"  he  repeated.  "Watkins  said  they  were 
pretty  badly  shaken  up  over  there — you  notice  the  house 
hasn't  shown  a  light  yet.  They're  jolted,  but  they  haven't 
learned  anything.  They're  still  for  the  strong  hand. 
When  they  get  the  militia  here  they'll  run  things  about  as 
they  have  been  running  them.  Mother  has  more  brains, 
but  she  trusts  father's  plans  because  he's  got  rich  by  them ; 
she's  seen  them  succeed — so  far.  After  all,  she  belongs  to 
the  old  generation." 

I  didn't  say  anything ;  after  a  moment  He  went  on : 

"Chavez  county  is  dominated  by  the  Hop  Growers'  As- 
sociation; Chavez  county  has  had  a  deputy  sheriff  and  a 
prosecuting  attorney  killed  by  seasonal  workers  on  Las 
Palmas  to-day.  Chavez  county  will  support  the  Stanleys 
and  their  methods.  But  this  is  the  point  that  may  weigh 
with  mother :  Chavez  county  isn't  the  whole  world,  or  even 
the  state  of  California,  to  her.  I  can't  believe  but  that 


818  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

she'll  writhe  under  the  criticism  they've  certainly  brought 
on  themselves  when  all  the  facts  are  known.  I'm  not  en- 
joying it  myself.  It's  my  name,  too,  you  see.  They're  my 
parents." 

Ten  chances  to  one  Philip  wouldn't  have  encountered 
his  father  on  Las  Palmas  to-day  at  all  but  for  me.  He 
wouldn't  have  been  struck  in  the  face;  he  wouldn't  have 
been  at  the  dance  platform  when  the  killings  occurred,  ex- 
cept that  he  was  trying  both  times  to  do  something  for  me. 
He  hadn't  tried  to  avoid  me — he  was  showing  himself  most 
kind — but  surely  he  must  feel  that  I  had  never  brought 
him  anything  but  ill  luck.  I  would  have  liked  to  say 
something  of  this,  but  I  couldn't  find  the  words.  There 
was  silence  till  we  came  up  with  the  others.  Mrs.  Pochin 
and  Sonya  hardly  stopped  for  whispered  good-byes,  and 
went  straight  on.  Joe  Ed,  without  a  word,  walked  into 
their  house  and  lay  down;  Dolph  Flegel  started  over  to 
the  stockade  for  Joe's  blankets. 

"Well,  Callie,"  said  Philip,  when  it  came  to  good-night, 
"I'll  do  anything  I  can  to  help  out  to-morrow.  I  hate  to 
see  you  let  in  for  all  this,  just  because  you  chose  the  Stan- 
ley ranch  to  pick  hops  on." 

"I  didn't !"  I  cried.  "I  never  knew  till  last  night  who 
owned  Las  Palmas — and  I  was  trying  to  get  away  this 
morning." 

There  was  a  brief  silence ;  then, 

"I  see,"  he  said,  slowly. 

"I  didn't  pay  enough  attention  to  where  I  was  going 
when  I  left  San  Vicente,"  I  said.  "I  was  just  sort  of 
running  away,  I  guess,  from  something.  The  Poinsettia 
— you  know — she  was  there." 

"Oh !"  His  tone  was  startled.  "That  poor  thing.  She 
did  make  it,  then.  Well,  I'm  glad  she's  safe." 

He  went  on  down  toward  where  the  round  eyes  of  two 
machines — his  and  the  doctor's — stared  through  the  dark 
in  the  vicinity  of  the  dance  platform.  I  was  to  remember 
afterward  that  word  of  his — "safe." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

SAFE 

I  WENT  and  got  Boy  from  Mrs.  Monroe's  tent  and 
carried  him  over  to  mine.  He'd  had  his  scare  and  his 
big  cry  at  all  the  shooting  and  excitement,  and,  after  it, 
was  sleeping  soundly.  I  had  got  undressed  and  pulled  on 
the  wrapper  that  I  slept  in  in  the  camp,  when  there  came 
a  shaking  of  my  tent  curtains  and  a  mumbling  of  my 
name.  It  was  Dolph  Flegel.  He  cringed  as  I  parted  the 
flaps. 

"Don't  let  that  light  on  me,"  he  said,  and  his  voice 
shook.  "I  just  come  a-past  to  tell  you  to  get  out  of  here 
quick  as  you  can.  There's  going  to  be  an  inquest  to-mor- 
row. They'll  have  us  all  hauled  up.  That's  what  the 
Pochins  run  away  from.  Over't  the  stockade  they've  been 
telling  me." 

"Of  course  there'll  be  an  inquest  to-morrow,  Dolph,"  I 
said.  "It's  better  for  us  to  stay  and  give  our  testimony." 

"Huh!"  choked  Dolph,  huskily.  "That  nigger  killed 
his  man  right  acrost  your  shoulder.  'F  I's  you  I'd  run — • 
I'd  never  quit  running.  D'ye  want  to  see  the  inside  of  a 
jail?" 

"There's  no  use  running,"  I  said.  "We'll  only  be 
wanted  as  witnesses;  but,  if  you  run,  you're  liable  to  be 
arrested.  Philip  Stanley  says •" 

"Huh !"  he  broke  in  on  me.  "  'Course  the  old  man  ain't 
goin'  to  do  anything  to  him!  I'll  trust  to  my  own  legs." 

"Dolph,  you'll  be  caught,"  I  said.  "And  it'll  be  the 
worse  for  you." 

"I  won't  never  be  caught  in  the  world.  I  think  you're 
a  fool  for  stayin'.  Well,  I've  warned  you,"  and  he  went 
blundering  away  in  the  dark,  with  a  clumsy  pack  on  his 
shoulder. 

319 


320  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

After  that,  for  some  hours  I  slept  the  sleep  of  dead 
weariness.  I  waked  suddenly  in  the  grey  dawn  to  the 
clink  of  metal,  the  sound  of  marching  feet.  I  stole  to  my 
tent  door  and  peered  out.  Down  at  the  big  gate  the  militia 
were  coming  in,  wheeling  from  the  road  in  formation, 
guns  over  their  shoulders,  marching  knee-deep  in  a  slug- 
gish layer  of  fog. 

An  hour  later,  when  I  was  making  some  sort  of  break- 
fast for  Boyce  and  Joe  Ed  and  myself,  they  were  pitching 
their  tents  on  a  nice  little  hill  back  of  the  ranch  house, 
within  easy  reach  of  those  better  wells  which  had  been  too 
far  away  for  the  use  of  the  miserable  pickers.  Strange 
how  little  visible  reminder  there  was  of  yesterday's  riot. 
The  people  were  very  quiet  and  watchful,  cooking  their 
breakfasts ;  the  empty  tents  and  shacks  showed  up  now ; 
yet  it  was  still  a  labour  camp,  and  those  in  it  were  listen- 
ing for  any  sound  that  would  tell  us  that  the  engine  had 
started  at  the  drying  kilns,  looking  for  any  movement  of 
wagons  toward  the  field.  It  was  significant  that  there  was 
no  staring  over  at  the  soldiers,  no  loud  mention  of  their 
presence. 

Down  around  the  office  men  in  khaki  uniforms  changed 
the  look  of  things  more.  Milt,  the  only  Stanley  in  sight, 
was  directing  some  lumber  wagons  toward  the  camp;  a 
few  men  with  hoes,  rakes  and  shovels  marched  after.  They 
were  hustling  round  to  do  a  little  bit  of  hasty  cleaning. 
Philip  hadn't  come  over  from  Corinth  yet.  Harvey  made 
a  favour  of  taking  our  depositions  for  the  coroner,  though 
I  knew  that  Philip  had  asked  it.  I  thanked  Harvey;  he 
never  once  looked  straight  at  me ;  Boyce,  rather  to  my  sur- 
prise, paid  no  attention  to  him.  We  gave  our  addresses, 
so  that  we  could  be  summoned  for  the  preliminary  hear- 
ing, and  were  allowed  to  go.  There  were  quite  a  number 
of  persons  leaving  just  as  we  were ;  the  big  stage  that  had 
been  sent  over  was  almost  full. 

It  seemed  queer  to  be  regarded  as  dangerous  or  crim- 


SAFE 

inal,  but  all  Corinth  was  in  a  bubble  of  terror  over  what 
had  happened  at  Las  Palmas  that  Sunday  afternoon,  and 
when  our  stage  got  to  the  station  it  was  rather  like  the 
Black  Maria  arriving  with  prisoners.  I  saw  Mrs.  Eccles's 
son-in-law  with  his  entire  family  in  the  round-eyed  crowd 
that  had  gathered  to  gape  at  us.  Boy  saw  them,  too ;  they 
didn't  half  enjoy  his  hallooing  to  them,  and  answered  with 
cold  repression. 

T  suppose  Joe  Ed,  with  his  wounded  arm,  figured  as  a 
particularly  dangerous  outlaw.  They  stared  after  us  when 
we  went  into  the  station  to  telegraph  the  Poinsettia.  It 
made  quite  a  sensation  when,  just  before  our  train  got  in, 
Philip  drove  up  in  his  roadster,  shook  hands  with  us,  and 
stayed  to  see  us  safely  aboard. 

We  got  into  San  Vicente  about  two  o'clock,  Joe,  his 
coat  off  the  left  side,  drawn  so  as  to  cover  and  protect  the 
bandaged  arm,  trying  still  to  make  a  joke  of  everything. 
I  was  ashamed  that  there  wasn't  a  smile  left  in  me  to  an- 
swer his  gallant  effort.  It  was  like  getting  back  home 
after  a  war.  It  seemed  strange  that  the  town  should  be 
just  as  I  had  left  it  last  Wednesday !  Boy  was  lively ;  he 
noticed  everything.  It  was  he  who,  when  the  taxi  we  had 
to  have  on  Joe's  account  turned  into  Arbolado  street,  called 
out: 

"Oh,  see  the  funny  wagon  at  our  house.  What  kind  of 
wagon  is  that,  Muvver  ?" 

It  was  an  auto  hearse  drawn  up  in  front  of  the  Poin- 
settia. Other  motors  ranged  down  that  side  of  the  street. 
The  doors  and  windows  were  open ;  people  stood  about  on 
the  sidewalk,  and  there  was  quite  a  crowd  gathered  across 
the  way,  watching. 

"Oh,"  I  gasped,  "it— it's  a  funeral !" 

Joe  Ed  was  very  white,  leaning  forward  and  staring. 
His  impudent,  irresponsible  young  countenance  looked  all 
at  once  older. 

"What'll  I  do  ?"  our  chauffeur  asked,  in  a  lowered  tone. 
"You  don't  want  to  go  in  on  her  funeral." 


322  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

He  brought  his  car  to  a  stop  and  added,  "It  won't  be 
but  a  minute  now — they're  coming  out." 

A  man  who  sat  beside  the  chauffeur  of  the  hearse  got 
down  and  went  with  a  sort  of  solemn  briskness  toward 
the  front  door.  Through  that  front  door  there  emerged, 
rolling  slowly  on  its  wheeled  truck,  a  casket  banked  and 
buried  in  white  flowers.  The  pall-bearers  walked  on  either 
side ;  the  hand  of  each  man  dropped  to  the  massive  silver 
handles  of  the  great  box.  Two  of  the  undertaker's  assist- 
ants were  following,  arms  piled  with  more  floral  offerings. 

"Who "  Joe's  voice  shook.  "Have  you  any  idea 

who  it  is?" 

"I  think Look  at  the  pall-bearers,"  I  whispered 

back.  The  heavy  steel  casket  was  being  manoeuvred  across 
the  sidewalk.  At  what  would  have  been  the  right  hand  of 
whoever  they  were  carrying  walked  Judge  Hoard,  his  un- 
covered grey  head  bent.  Across  from  him  was  the  senior 
McBride  brother;  back  of  him  Chester  Lawrence,  prose- 
cuting attorney  of  San  Vicente  county.  The  eight  men 
were  all  members  of  the  local  bar.  Mrs.  Hoard,  in  black, 
and  others  whom  I  knew  by  sight  as  distant  relatives  or 
old  friends  of  Miss  Chandler's,  were  taking  the  first  car 
behind  that  of  the  pall-bearers. 

"What  they  doin',  Muvver?"  Boy's  voice  recalled  me 
to  myself.  "Why  don't  we  go  into  our  house  ?" 

"We  will,  in  a  minute,"  I  answered,  mechanically.  "Be 
still,  dear." 

The  undertaker  and  his  assistants  were  getting  people 
into  the  waiting  cars.  We  sat  where  we  were  while  they 
all  came  out — Mrs.  Thrasher,  Mrs.  Tutt  and  Ermentrude, 
little  Miss  Creevy,  all  tremulous  and  shaken-looking ;  Mr. 
Martin  alone  (I  suppose  his  wife  wasn't  able  to  walk  yet), 
and,  finally,  Rosalie — evidently  "covering"  the  occasion 
for  the  "Clarion,"  her  face  the  only  one  in  sight  that  did 
not  wear  that  curious  air  of  make-believe  and  super-solem- 
nity with  which  we  helplessly  confront  death.  She  turned 


SAFE  323 

to  speak  to  Mrs.  Tipton,  who  followed  and  stood  bare- 
headed on  the  top  step. 

"There's  mother!"  Joe  Ed  drew  a  great  breath  of  re- 
lief. 

"There's  Orma,  too,"  Boy  prompted.  I  could  see  even 
from  this  distance  that  the  girl's  face  was  reddened  and 
swollen  by  tears. 

The  hearse  started  on  slowly;  the  other  cars  fell  in  be- 
hind; the  crowd  lingered,  looking  after,  staring  over  at 
the  Poinsettia,  twos  and  threes  of  them  with  heads  close 
together  exchanging  comments.  A  huckster's  wagon 
turned  the  corner  back  of  us;  he  was  passing  the  house 
calling,  "Watermel-loons!  Watermel-loons !  Watermel- 
loons!  and  nice,  fraish  canteloups!"  as  we  finally  got  to 
the  curb  and  Mrs.  Tipton  and  Orma  came  down  to  us. 
Our  telegram  had  arrived ;  we  were  expected.  They  knew 
of  Joe  Ed's  injury — and  supposed  that  we  had  known  of 
the  funeral,  seeing  it  in  the  papers. 

I  hadn't  thought  Joe  Ed  could  move  like  that,  with  a 
broken  arm.  He  was  on  the  sidewalk  before  the  wheels 
had  well  stopped  turning,  had  the  one  good  arm  around 
his  mother,  and  had  fairly  lifted  her  off  her  feet.  I  didn't 
hear  a  word  between  them;  I  don't  believe  any  was 
spoken ;  but  their  faces  were  enough. 

"Howdy,  Cal."  It  was  Rosalie  who  poked  up  a  hand 
as  I  was  getting  out  of  the  taxi.  "Say — it's  a  relief  to 
see  you  here  alive  after  what  we've  been  hearing  about  the 
Hopfield  riots." 

The  house  seemed  very  strange,  all  emptied  and  solemn 
and  silent  that  way.  I  noticed  with  a  little  contraction 
of  the  heart  a  pale  face  looking  from  an  upstairs  window 
— Miss  Chandler's  window.  As  I  glanced  up,  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin bowed  slightly  to  me ;  Julia,  brown  and  solemn,  looked 
over  her  shoulder.  She  had  evidently  helped  the  old  lady 
to  that  point  so  she  could  see  the  departure  of  the  funeral. 

"You're  to  have  the  bungalow,  Mrs.  Baird,"  Mrs.  Tip- 


324  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

ton  said.  "Let  the  man  take  your  snit-case  round  there 
for  you.  Orma  can  carry  Eddy^s  things  up  to  his  room." 

The  chauffeur  had  already  started  down  the  tunnel 
with  my  bag,  Boy  at  his  heels,  when  a  huggy  came  lather- 
ing up  with  two  women  in  it — Mrs.  Eccles  driving;  be- 
side her,  Delia,  a  monstrous  floral  pillow  in  her  lap. 

"Oh — am  I  too  late?"  she  demanded,  hardly  seeming 
to  notice  who  we  were.  "Did  Mr.  Watkins  get  here? 
Well,  of  all  things — to  be  late  for  a  funeral !" 

"How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Baird  V9  Mrs.  Eccles  pronounced, 
in  her  reproving  tone.  It  drew  Delia's  attention  to  me, 
and  she  fluttered: 

"Oh,  Foncie — I  didn't  see  you  at  first.  Did  you  come 
back  for  Gene  Chandler's  funeral?'  Then,  without 
waiting  for  any  answer,  <fWeM  have  been  in  plenty  of  time 
if  that  old  florist  hadn't  kept  us  waiting — or  we'd  had 
Harvey  with  his  car  to  bring  us  when  we  did  get  the  pil- 
low. Isn't  it  a  beauty  ?"  she  reared  it  a  bit  in  her  lap  so 
we  could  see  the  word  "Peace"  on  it.  The  fantastic 
thought  crossed  my  mind  that  it  ought  to  have  been  "Safe" 
instead. 

"Why  not  follow  on  down  Fortieth  street?"  Mrs.  Tip- 
ton's  little  silvery  tones  suggested.  "A  funeral  procession 
moves  very  slowly.  I  should  think  you  could  easily  over- 
take them." 

"I  believe  I  will,"  Delia  debated.  "I  can't  bear  to  not 
have  it  used."  She  lowered  her  tone.  "It  cost " 

Mrs.  Eccles  started  the  old  horse  with  a  jerk.  I  don't 
know  to  this  day  what  Delia's  pillow  cost  her. 

We  saw  mother  and  son  shoulder  to  shoulder  going  up  to 
the  front  steps  of  the  Poinsettia,  then  Rosalie  and  I  started 
for  the  bungalow. 

"You  look  sort  of  bowled  over,"  Rosalie  began  in  that 
familiar  drawl  of  hers  as  soon  as  we  were  alone.  "This 
the  first  you  heard  about  it  f 

"Yes,"  I  said. 


SAFE  325 

"I  guess  you've  been  too  busy  to  read  the  papers,"  she 
was  diving  into  that  reticule  which  she  called  her  war  bag 
as  she  spoke.  "We  ran  her  picture  yesterday."  She 
brought  out  a  copy  of  the  usual  Sunday  "Clarion,"  folded 
to  show  a  cut  of  Miss  Chandler  on  the  front. 

"An  overdose  of  medicine  taken  by  mistake  has  fatal 
results,"  she  read  from  the  opening  paragraph  below  it. 

"Oh,"  I  said,  "that  was  it" 

Rosalie  looked  at  me,  her  head  on  one  side,  her  fine 
dark  eyes  a  bit  derisive. 

"Sounds  better  than  suicide.  She  fixed  it  so  her  friends 
could  say  the  other,  anyhow.  Saved  her  face.  It's  what 
I'd  do.  If  ever  I  get  to  where  I  can't  go  on,  Cal,  you  just 
look  for  me  to  fix  up  a  plausible  theory  for  the  coroner — 
it's  only  decent." 

"Rosalie "  I  began,  after  a  moment's  hesitation — 

"what  makes  you  think  that  she'd  got  to  where  she  couldn't 
go  on?" 

"Used  to  lots  of  money,"  said  Rosalie.  "Been  spending 
her  capital.  It's  all  gone.  Life  isn't  worth  living  to  that 
sort  of  folks  without  money,  and  plenty  of  it.  It's  her 
affair.  She  had  the  right  to  quit — anyway  she  wanted  to. 
Say — tell  me  about  the  riots." 

I  paid  the  chauffeur;  we  went  in  to  where  Boy  was 
coasting  about  the  rooms  in  mute  admiration  of  our  new 
quarters.  I  gave  Rosalie  the  main  points  of  what  I  had 
seen  at  Las  Palmas. 

"Gosh  Almighty!"  she  kept  ejaculating.  "Gosh  Al- 
mighty !"  Then,  "That's  big  stuff,  Cal.  Lord,  that's  big." 
She  sniffed  contemptuously.  "Doen't  sound  much  like  the 
slop  we  ran  in  the  'Clarion.'  But  of  course  we're  always 
on  the  side  of  the  dirty  sneaks.  Your  friend  Harvey 
Watkins — husband  of  the  lady  with  the  pillow  that  'cost' 
— is  attorney  for  the  Stanleys.  He  got  Bill  on  long  dis- 
tance Sunday  night  and  filled  him  up  to  the  nock.  You'd 
have  thought  the  hop  pickers  were  cannibals.  Well,  so 


326  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

long,  honey.  It's  awfully  good  to  have  you  back  here  safe 
and  sound — and  this  young'un  of  yours — he  grows  like  a 
weed." 

She  swooped  down  on  Boy  near  the  door,  pulled  him 
around  and  gave  him  a  little  thump  which  he  liked  instead 
of  the  kiss  a  small  boy  is  apt  to  be  dodging  when  an  admir- 
ing woman  grabs  him.  "I'm  going  to  come  some  afternoon 
and  get  you  two  and  take  you  to  a  movie,"  she  declared 
as  she  left. 

How  good  and  usual  and  commonplace  it  all  seemed ! 

And  Miss  Chandler  was  safe. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

MAN'S  JUSTICE 


RIGHT  there  in  that  little  wistaria-wrapped  bungalow 
of  Frank  Hollis  Dale's,  the  lovely  place  I  had  stared 
at  so  wistfully  from  my  one  window  the  first  morning  in 
San  Vicente,  I  lived  for  the  next  six  months.  When  the 
rains  came,  Boyce  tracked  in  mud  over  that  kitchen  lino- 
leum I  had  seen  our  celebrity  washing  up.  My  typewriter 
sat  where  his  used  to  sit ;  I  plugged  away  at  its  keys,  facing 
the  historic  spot  where  Dr.  Rush  had  knocked  him  sprawl- 
ing. 

For  now  that  I  didn't  try  so  hard,  success  came  to  me. 
To  put  it  in  a  few  words,  long  ago  I  had  suggested  to  Dr. 
Rush  popular  articles  on  medical  subjects,  written  just  in 
the  vivid,  spontaneous  way  that  he  talked.  He  took  up  the 
idea,  dictated  the  stuff  to  me,  let  me  get  it  into  the  form 
I  had  planned  for  him,  made  a  hit  with  it,  gave  me  lots  of 
credit,  and  I  soon  had  the  job  of  helping  him  revise,  recast, 
and  make  ready  the  manuscript  for  a  book  publisher.  I 
was  to  read  the  proofs.  Dr.  Rush  was  as  pleased  and  ex- 
cited as  a  boy  over  this  success  in  a  new  line.  He  treated 
me  like  a  partner,  telegraphed  me  twice  about  the  matter 
while  I  was  up  in  Corinth  at  the  trial. 

My  work  with  him  led  to  other  work.  I  was  offered 
a  part-time  position  at  the  Normal — visiting  secretary — 
that  paid  very  well  indeed.  It  was  easy  for  me  to  keep 
Boy  with  me,  in  kindergarten  for  the  mornings,  and  with  a 
schoolgirl  to  look  after  him  when  I  couldn't  be  at  home 
afternoons.  A  year  and  a  half  ago,  when  I  faced  the  ques- 
tion of  running  away,  as  I  stood  in  the  dark  in  the  dusty 
side  yard  of  the  ranch  up  at  Meaghers,  and  felt  as  though 
I  were  about  to  jump  over  a  cliff,  I  should  have  thought 

327 


THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

such  a  situation  as  this  heavenly.  I  had  pulled  through, 
on  the  straight  road.  I  was  modestly  successful,  respected 
by  my  immediate  world. 

At  Las  Palmas,  we  heard  how  the  hops  were  picked, 
with  militia  to  overawe  the  pickers.  No  inquiry  was  made 
into  the  death  of  the  English  boy.  He  was  buried  in  the 
potter's  field  at  Corinth,  and  nobody  knew  any  name  to  put 
on  the  pine  headboard  above  him.  Money  was  spent  like 
water  on  private  detectives  who  raked  and  combed  the 
country  about  for  fugitive  strikers.  The  entire  legal  ma- 
chinery of  Chavez  county,  dominated  by  the  Hop  Growers' 
Association,  seemed  to  have  been  turned  over  to  the  enter- 
prise of  getting  them  to  trial,  putting  them  behind  bars. 

They  caught  poor  Dolph  early.  Very  quickly  the 
Corinth  jail  was  crowded  with  witnesses  and  suspects,  who 
sweltered  there  through  months,  and  shivered  there 
through  later  months,  many  of  them  to  be  dismissed  in  the 
end,  discovered  to  know  absolutely  nothing  about  the  riots. 
From  the  first  the  eager  detectives  had  a  free  hand  with 
them,  and  beat  and  tortured  in  the  cells  to  extort  confes- 
sion. Later,  when  it  was  all  over,  a  deputy  got  a  year  in 
San  Quentin  for  mauling  Dolph  almost  to  death  like  this. 
There  were  several  attempts  at  suicide  among  the  helpless 
creatures ;  Father  Abraham  did  kill  himself. 

Joe  Ed  and  I  had  to  go  back  to  Corinth  to  testify  at  the 
preliminary  hearing ;  later  we  were  up  there  nearly  all  of 
January  at  the  trial  that  was  nationally  reported  and  dis- 
cussed. For  they  had  made  the  indictment  against  Mon- 
roe and  Cluett  murder,  and  tried  to  get  the  same  against 
two  others,  but  failed !  Socialists  worked  with  the  I.  W. 
W.  in  a  defence  league,  and  retained  as  lawyer  Arnold 
Llewellyn  from  San  Vicente,  devoted,  eloquent,  a  famous 
fighter  in  big  labour  cases  on  the  coast.  Independent  of 
this,  and  just  to  show  what  sort  of  people  were  on  trial,  the 
I.  W.  W.  established  what  they  called  a  "Jungle"  in  an 
old  barn  in  Corinth.  Forty  youngish  men,  they  lived 


MAN'S  JUSTICE  329 

there,  cooking  their  own  food,  one  of  them  who  was  a  tailor 
putting  in  his  time  mending  and  pressing  their  clothes  so 
that  they  could  make  a  good  appearance  when,  day  by  day, 
they  marched  into  the  courtroom,  clean,  attentive,  serious, 
a  friendly,  moral  support.  Corinth  and  Chavez  county 
didn't  know  what  to  make  of  it.  Even  the  fact  that  the 
"segregated  district"  never  saw  one  of  these  men  during 
that  time,  while  the  public  library  was  fairly  overrun 
by  them,  didn't  keep  the  little  town  from  looking  at  them 
as  a  mysterious  threat,  some  new  kind  of  outlaw  band. 

But  what  could  be  done  where  there  was  no  question  of 
human  justice,  even  of  legal  justice  ?  Every  summer  this 
district  had  trouble  with  its  seasonal  workers ;  here  was  its 
chance  to  show  these  drifting  hordes,  once  and  for  all,  that 
they  dared  not  organise  and  strike. 

The  whole  experience  was  to  me  like  walking  on  hot 
ploughshares.  There  were  the  Stanleys  every  day  in  court, 
having  it  their  own  way.  She  nearly  always  came,  superb- 
ly dressed,  and  sat  by  her  husband,  looking  on  at  every 
thing  with  that  slight  smile  of  hers — the  proud,  handsome 
face,  the  lip  of  quiet  defiance,  that  repelled  me  in  her,  and 
that  I  had  fairly  worshipped  in  her  son.  I  had  to  go  on 
the  stand,  there  before  them,  knowing  that  my  testimony 
would  make  them  furious  at  me,  proving  as  it  did  that  Bice 
had  killed  both  the  officers  for  whose  murder  Monroe  and 
Cluett  were  being  tried,  one  when  he  was  attacking  me,  the 
other  by  a  wild  shot  from  his  gun  as  he  fell.  I  saw  in  their 
faces  as  I  swore  to  it  that  they  hated  me  for  every  word. 
Eor  from  the  opening  day,  when  the  big  city  papers  very- 
where  began  to  print  reports,  the  outside  criticism  of  the 
Stanleys  was  free  and  bitter.  Yet  in  the  end  they  were 
able  to  send  Barney  and  Cluett  to  San  Quentin  for  life, 
convicted  of  murder  in  the  face  of  all  testimony.  And 
there  was  poor,  little,  shattered  Mrs.  Pochin,  Sonya  with 
her,  a  ghost  of  her  beautiful  self,  the  rest  of  the  family 
driven  and  scattered;  Mrs.  Monroe  worse  than  widowed, 


330  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

Barney's  two  little  black-eyed  children  disgraced  orphans 
— there  was  plenty  to  wring  my  heart. 

Even  so,  why  should  I  have  come  back  from  that  trial 
down  in  the  depths,  ready  to  cry  all  the  time?  Why 
couldn't  I  put  its  bitterness  behind  me,  and  go  as  I  ought 
with  my  own  affairs.  Well,  I  couldn't ;  I  just  drove  my- 
self to  work  that  should  have  been  a  delight.  The  minute 
I  was  free  from  it  and  alone,  I'd  be  fairly  drowned  in  the 
old  misery  that  I  thought  I  was  done  with  when  I  married 
Oliver  Baird  at  seventeen. 

Constancy  is  very  much  praised;  but  it  seemed  to  me 
that  I  was  to  be  pitied  when  the  sight  of  Philip  in  the 
courtroom,  the  sound  of  his  voice  there,  thrilled  my  heart 
just  as  it  used  to  in  the  Stanleyton  schoolroom.  Then,  I 
had  been  made  happy  by  it  for  all  day ;  but  that  was  more 
than  seven  years  ago;  I  had  gone  through  a  great  deal 
since  that  time  and  got  some  very  bitter  knowledge.  What 
had  made  a  poor,  ignorant  child  happy  only  made  me 
suffer. 

Up  at  Corinth  I  was  on  such  an  emotional  strain  that  I 
couldn't  be  natural  in  Philip's  presence,  and  I  would  have 
avoided  him.  But  his  testimony  was  a  sensational  fea- 
ture of  the  trial,  and  one  of  the  hardest  things  the  prosecu- 
tion had  to  meet;  under  the  circumstances,  we  couldn't 
help  being  thrown  together,  and  when  we  were  I  was  like 
an  intoxicated  man,  trying  to  walk  straight  and  talk 
straight,  and  hide  his  condition.  I  knew  I  was  behaving 
strangely,  because  I  could  see  it  react  on  him  and  puzzle 
him.  Continually  on  edge,  I'd  say  something  curt — almost 
hateful — to  him  whenever  we  met,  and  then  be  in  an  agony 
to  see  how  he  drew  back  from  me  and  held  off  from  me  for 
awhile. 

Each  time,  I  thought  surely  it  was  the  end.  And  then 
we'd  be  together  again,  and  he  would  seem  to  have  forgot- 
ten his  resentment  entirely ;  he  would  talk  to  me — look  at 
me— oh,  the  see-saw  of  feeling  had  me  nearly  crazy ! 


MAN'S  JUSTICE  331 

When  the  trial  was  over  at  last,  when  I  could  come 
home,  sick  at  heart,  but  at  least  assured  that  I  hadn't  been 
betrayed  into  any  humiliating  revelations,  the  city  papers 
got  hold  of  the  complete  story  of  the  early  affair  between 
Philip  and  me,  and  printed  it  with  all  the  sentimental 
flourishes,  the  cuts  of  us  that  they'd  run  during  the  trial, 
placed  side  by  side,  and  below  them  such  phrases  as, 
"Early  romance — Beautiful  girl — Cruel  parents — More 
light  on  the  attitude  of  L.  C.  Stanley's  son  in  the  Chavez 
county  industrial  struggle." 

I  shall  never  forget  the  evening  that  I  saw  that  paper 
for  the  first  time.  I  felt  so  helpless.  I  read  every  word 
as  though  Philip  were  reading  it.  Now  it  certainly  would 
appear  to  him  that  contact  with  me  meant  intolerable  an- 
noyance and  misfortune. 

And  everybody  in  the  house  took  it  up,  congratulated 
me — wanted  to  know  when  the  wedding  was  to  be !  I  could 
see  my  denials  were  not  believed,  yet  I  reiterated  them 
frantically.  If  I  ever  met  Philip  again — and  I  almost 
wished  I  never  might — I'd  at  least  clear  myself;  I'd  tell 
him  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  letting  the  story 
get  out. 

It  wasn't  very  long  after  this  publication,  I  was  down  at 
Snow's,  buying  some  valentines  for  Boy,  when  Delia  Wat- 
kins  came  up  to  the  counter  and  began  pulling  over  the  bits 
of  pasteboard  with  their  verses  and  pictures.  I'd  made  up 
my  mind  that  I  wasn't  going  to  say  a  word  to  her  beyond 
how  do  you  do ;  but  she  offered  a  wavering  hand,  and  the 
moment  I  accepted  it,  dashed  right  into  congratulations  on 
my  capposed  engagement  to  Philip  Stanley. 

I  stopped  her  short  with  a  flat  contradiction.  She  was 
easy  to  convince,  and  said  over  and  over, 

"Well  I'm  sorry  it  isn't  so,  I'm  sure."  Then,  "I — 
Foncie,  I'm  a  true  friend  still — whether  you  believe  it  or 
not." 

"That's  all  right,"  I  agreed  hastily.     "Never  mind!" 


332  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

The  saleswoman  brought  my  package.  Delia  saw  I  was 
going  to  leave,  and  put  in, 

"Well,  Foncie — or  would  you  rather  I'd  call  you  Mrs. 
Baird  now  ? — there's  something  I  have  to  see  you  about — 
I  was  going  out  to  your  house,  if  I  hadn't  met  you  here. 
Come  on  up  to  the  ladies'  parlor — or  the  restaurant — 
where  we  can  be  to  ourselves,  won't  you  ?" 

I  know  I  looked  reluctant,  but  before  I  could  think  of 
any  way  out  of  it,  Delia  had  me  back  to  the  elevator.  Go- 
ing up  she  began  nervously, 

"Oh,  I  miss  Gene  so — Gene  Chandler." 

I  looked  at  her  startled.  Was  she  getting  me  off  to 
herself  to  ask  something  about  Eugenia  Chandler?  We 
stepped  out  into  Snow's  Pompeiian  Court  restaurant,  quite 
a  wonderful  place,  where  big  meetings  were  often  held. 
To-day,  at  three  o'clock,  there  was  scarcely  anyone  in  it; 
but  Delia  led  the  way  to  a  secluded  corner  under  the  mez- 
zanine, talking  as  she  went, 

"Gene  and  I  and  Celia — Mrs.  Judge  Hoard,  you  know 
— were  all  girls  together.  Celia's  older — she  was  in  High 
when  we  were  in  Grammar — but  those  girlhood  ties — 
Did  you  notice  the  pall  bearers  ?  All  members  of  the  bar. 
One  of  our  firm — Walter  McBride." 

There  was  no  need  for  me  to  answer ;  Delia  ordered  nut 
sundaes  for  us  both,  and  when  the  girl  went  to  fetch  them, 
put  her  elbows  on  the  table  and  remarked  with  a  sigh, 

"Wasn't  it  funny  how  the  Boggs-Pendleton  prosecution 
slacked  up  ?" 

"Slacked  up  ?  I  didn't  know  that  it  had.  Since  when, 
do  you  mean  ?"  and  I  watched  her  face. 

"Well,  outsiders  wouldn't  know.  Judge  Hoard  just 
stopped  taking  any  interest  in  the  Anti-Vice  committee 
after  being  the  main  one — almost.  Why,  it  was  through 
him  that  our  firm  was  engaged.  I  hated  thatr  too,  with 
poor  little  Mrs.  Pendleton  right  there  next  door.  I  think 
I'd  die  if  my  troubles  were  all  in  the  papers  like  hers  are." 


MAN'S  JUSTICE  333 

She  caught  my  eye,  and  was  suddenly  silent.  It  dawned 
on  me  with  a  great  light  that  she  hadn't  meant  a  thing  by 
her  allusions  to  Miss  Chandler ;  there  was  no  connection  in 
her  mind  between  Miss  Chandler  and  the  Boggs-Pendleton 
case.  She  was  just  talking  against  time,  working  around 
to  her  own  affairs.  Ten  chances  to  one,  she  had  no  errand 
with  me  but  to  rake  up  the  trouble  there  had  been  between 
us,  go  all  over  it  again  and  sort  of  patch  it  up.  What  she 
next  said  sounded  that  way: 

"Men  haven't  a  bit  of  sense.  I  had  to  put  my  foot  down 
hard  to  keep  Harvey  from  wading  right  into  the  middle  of 
that  prosecution — never  seemed  to  think  of  what  the  de- 
fence might  dig  up  about  him." 

She  stopped  significantly.  I  said  nothing.  She  had  to 
goon, 

"I've  learned  a  lot  since  I  talked  to  you  last,  Foncie. 
They  aren't  all  you  think  they  are  when  you  marry  them. 
I've  had  my  eyes  opened.  Oh,  it  wasn't  you  only — I  came 
onto  plenty.  And  I  told  him  what  I  thought  of  him ;  we 
had  it  up  and  down — Foncie,  you've  been  revenged,  all 
right." 

"I'm  not  looking  for  revenge,"  I  said.  "Don't  feel  that 
you  have  to  tell  me  anything  about  it." 

"No — but  while  we're  on  the  subject,"  Delia  hung  to  it. 
"See  here,  Foncie,  I've  been  hoping  you  wouldn't  talk — 
you  know — about  Harvey."  She  glanced  up  from  the 
menu  she  was  twisting,  then  her  eyes  dropped  in  a  shame- 
faced way.  "I  always  thought  it  was  so  perfectly  awful  to 
be  talked  about !  Some  people  don't  seem  to  mind  it,  but 
I  just  couldn't  bear  to  go  into  a  room  and  feel  that  all 
the  women  in  it  had  been  cat-hauling  my  private  affairs. 
More  than  once  I've  had  my  hat  on  to  come  and  beg  you 
not  to  say  anything — for  my  sake." 

I  shouldn't  have  thought  that  Delia's  plump,  solid,  self- 
satisfied  face  could  look  so  doleful.  When  I  didn't  answer 
at  once,  she  almost  whimpered. 


334  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

"I  never  told  anybody  about  Harvey — and  my  quarrel 
with  you  people,"  I  said.  Then  with  a  sudden  recollection 
of  that  Sunday  afternoon  and  Miss  Chandler,  "Well — 
never  but  one  person ;  and  she " 

"She  ?"  Delia  sat  up  in  her  chair ;  her  eyes  were  round 
as  she  fixed  them  on  me — I  saw  that  she  would  much 
rather  it  had  been  "he." 

"Yes,  I  met  her  after  I  left  you  and  your  husband  that 
Sunday  so  mad  I  couldn't  see.  She  knew  right  off  some- 
thing was  the  matter.  She  cared  enough  about  me  to 
notice." 

"You  went  straight  from  our  house  to  Mrs.  Eccles's," 
Delia  breathed  heavily.  "I  thought  that  woman  had  been 
looking  at  me  awfully  queer.  Well " 

"You've  forgotten,"  I  said.  "Mrs.  Eccles  was  at  Cor- 
inth that  Sunday.  I  had  to  wait  around  with  Boy  till  she 
got  back.  It  was  afterward — at  the  Country  Club." 

"The  Country  Club — oh,  Foncie !"  The  very  name  of 
the  place  hit  Delia  below  the  belt.  "To  have  it  get  out 
in  that  set !  Was — was  this  somebody  who  would  be  likely 
to  repeat  what  you  said  ?" 

"No,"  I  answered,  with  a  little  choke,  "you  needn't  be 
afraid.  She'll  never  tell  on  you.  It  was  Eugenia  Chandler." 

"Gene — oh,  goodness!  I'd  rather  anyone  else  in  the 
world — "  Delia  was  beginning.  Then  with  a  great  wave 
of  relief:  "But  she's  dead!" 

"Yes,"  I  said  bitterly,  "your  dear  friend,  Eugenia 
Chandler  that  you  miss  so,  is  dead — isn't  it  handy  ?" 

"Well,  there's  no  use  being  sarcastic.  It's  everybody  for 
themselves  in  this  old  world.  Anyhow,  you've  taken  a 
weight  off  my  mind.  I  thank  you  for  that,  just  the  same." 
She  rummaged  for  her  handkerchief  in  the  little  velvet 
bag  at  her  wrist,  and  scrubbed  her  nose  absently.  "If 
nothing's  been  said,  in  so  many  words — but  of  course  it's 
been  noticed  that  we're  not  friends  any  more.  Mrs.  Eccles 
must  have  suspected.  She's  a  good  deal  of  a  talker  in  her 


MAN'S  JUSTICE  335 

way.  Foncie,  you  could  fix  that — easy — just  dropping  a 
word  here  and  there  to  show  that  there's  perfectly  good 
feeling  between  us  all  again." 

"I  wonder  at  you,"  I  said,  "asking  me  to  go  around  fix- 
ing up  a  story  to  shield  a  man  like  Harvey  Watkins !  Do 
you  think  I  kept  still  out  of  any  consideration  for  him — 
or  for  you  either  ?  Why,  Delia,  when  we  were  quarrelling, 
you  were  worse  than  he  was !" 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  say  that,"  Delia  argued.  "I've 
been  for  peace,  always,  and  for  everybody's  best  good.  I've 
tried  to  think  of — of  something  I  could  do,  ever  since  the 
split.  I'd  have  sent  Jack  a  Christmas  present — if  I'd 
dared." 

She  waited,  but  I  didn't  see  why  I  should  help  her  out. 

"Well,"  she  said,  like  a  person  turning  over  distasteful 
things  with  a  stick,  "sometimes  I  almost  wish  I'd  had 
children.  I  suppose  I  might  as  well.  Bringing  a  child 
into  the  world  wouldn't  have  been  so  much  harder  than  the 
operations  I've  gone  through;  and  after  all  we've  got  the 
home  to  keep  up.  Things  might  have  been  different;  per- 
haps it  would  have  held  Harve — but  it's  too  late  now." 
She  looked  at  me  dismally,  saw  how  I  fidgeted  with  my 
gloves,  and  wound  up.  "You're  in  a  hurry,  aren't  you  ? 
I  oughtn't  to  take  up  your  time  talking  of  my  troubles." 

I  didn't  contradict.    I  only  reminded  her, 

"You  said  you  wanted  to  see  me  about  something." 

"Yes,  it's  about  the  banquet.  I  told  them  I  didn't  be- 
lieve you'd  think  of  going." 

"Banquet?"  I  was  glad  to  change  the  subject.  "I've 
not  been  invited  to  any  banquet." 

"Oh,  it  isn't  an  invitation  affair,"  she  spoke  slowly. 
"If  you  ask  me,  I  think  it  ought  to  have  been — but  it 
isn't.  Here  in  the  Court  next  Saturday  night — a  dollar  a 
plate.  Anybody  that's  a  mind  to  pay  for  their  dinner  can 
come.  I  told  them  that  way  they'd  get  a  lot  of  folks  they 
wouldn't  want.  I  offered  to  see  you." 


336  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

"About  what  ?"  I  asked. 

"Listen,  Foncie;  it's  this  way;  the  Local  Federation's 
giving  it.  Well,  the  entire  Federation's  behind  it — State 
and  all — but  it's  under  the  direct  auspices  of  the  Women's 
Civic  League.  Mrs.  Judge  Hoard  will  preside.  There's 
to  be  speaking — a  discussion.  The  idea  is  to  have  both 
sides  get  a  fair  hearing,  as  they  couldn't  in  court." 

"Both  sides  of  what?" 

"Oh,  didn't  I  say  ?  The  riots — up  at  the  Stanley  place." 

The  Stanley  place.  I  began  to  see  light.  She  hurried 
on, 

"Mrs.  Stanley  feels  all  this  misrepresentation  they've 
had  in  the  newspapers  more  than  he  does ;  a  woman  would. 
She  does  certainly  take  it  hard — wants  to  leave  California 
— go  to  Honolulu — they've  a  lot  of  property  down  there 
in  the  Islands.  But  first,  she  wants  them  to  have  this 
chance  to  give  their  side  of  the  case  properly,  before  nice 
people.  She's  president  of  the  State  Federation.  She 
planned  the  banquet  with  some  of  the  most  prominent  club 
women  we've  got.  The  Stanleys  will  motor  down  and  stop 
at  the  Richelieu.  You  see  I'm  on  one  of  the  committees, 
Gallic,  and  so " 

"See  here,"  I  stopped  her,  "are  you  asking  me  to  come 
to  this  thing,  or  not  ?" 

"Well — er — sort  of  not."  Even  Delia  felt  that  this  was 
pretty  raw,  for  she  faced  me  red  and  embarrassed. 

I  jumped  up,  and  reached  across  for  my  gloves  and 
parcel. 

"So  you're  on  the  nice  people's  committee,"  I  said. 
"And  you  undertook  the  job  of  seeing  that  I  stayed  away. 
That's  what  you  brought  me  up  here  for.  Well,  you  might 
have  saved  yourself  the  trouble." 

I  walked  straight  to  the  elevator.  Delia  had  to  stop  and 
pay  the  cheque,  but  she  caught  up  with  me  there,  and  stood 
waiting  beside  me. 

"Foncie,"  there  was  that  old  trick  of  plucking  at  my 


MAN'S  JUSTICE  337 

jacket  edge,  "you  won't  hold  spite  against  me  for  any- 
thing I've  said  ?  You  wouldn't  if  you  knew  how  miserable 
I  am — and  scared,  for  fear  we'll  lose  our  standing.  If 
anybody  so  much  as  looks  crossways  at  me,  I  think  it's 
come.  Days  when  I'm  blue,  I  just  imagine  that  every- 
body's talking  already  behind  my  back.  I  know  then  how 
Mrs.  Stanley  feels.  I'd  be  glad  to  get  out  of  San  Vicente 
— Las  Eeudas,  anyhow.  And  we've  got  that  lovely  home 
out  there,  and  all." 

"You  make  me  tired,"  I  said,  looking  sidewise  at  her. 
"I've  been  around  with  people  lately  that  wouldn't  believe 
you've  got  a  trouble  on  earth,  with  your  fine  house,  your 
good  clothes,  your  money,  and  three  square  meals  a  day." 

Next  minute  the  elevator  came.  I  thought  this  would 
be  the  end  of  it.  But  Delia  kept  right  with  me  to  the  store 
entrance. 

"Good-bye,"  I  was  beginning  there,  when  she  stopped  me 
with, 

"Foncie,  what  did  you  mean — back  at  the  table — by 
saying  I  might  have  spared  myself  the  trouble — about  the 
banquet,  you  know  ?  Are  you  coming  ?  Or  did  you  mean 
that  you  won't  ?" 

"Delia  Watkins,"  I  said,  "you  beat  anything  I  ever  saw. 
Suppose  you  wait  and  find  out!"  And  I  flounced  away 
and  left  her. 

And  after  all,  I  went  to  the  banquet.  There  was  no 
getting  out  of  it.  I  couldn't  have  asked  for  kinder  friends 
than  I  had  in  these  days  at  the  Poinsettia.  Those  idle 
people  at  the  house,  with  a  little  money  and  no  real 
interests  in  life,  would  naturally  have  been  on  the  side  of 
capital  against  labour.  But  when  we  got  home  from  Las 
Palmas,  Joe  Ed  was  carrying  a  broken  arm  in  a  sling. 
They  welcomed  the  excitement,  and  worked  themselves  into 
a  perfect  lather  of  sympathy  with  the  strikers.  Our  going 
back  to  the  trial  kept  up  the  agitation.  And  now  there 
was  nobody  but  me.  Joe  Ed  was  away.  He  had  bought 


338  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

in,  last  fall,  with  a  man  who  made  Arctic  voyages,  scien- 
tific fur  gathering,  but  mainly  for  the  producing  of  Arctic 
motion  picture  films  for  educational  use.  It  suited  the 
boy ;  there  were  both  adventure  and  money  in  it.  He  was 
in  San  Francisco  now,  working  with  his  partner  at  the  out- 
fitting. If  the  Poinsettians  were  to  feel  themselves  of 
any  importance  at  this  banquet,  it  had  to  be  on  account 
of  me. 

And  besides  that,  Mrs.  Thrasher,  who  always  had  a  few 
club  rows  simmering  on  the  back  of  the  stove,  was  now 
leading  a  faction  of  the  Federation  which  wanted  to  be 
sure  it  wasn't  being  "used"  by  Mrs.  Stanley  just  because 
Mrs.  Stanley  happened  to  be  State  president. 

"Go  ?  You've  got  to  go !"  she  said  to  me  that  evening, 
after  we'd  all  argued  for  an  hour  by  the  fireside  in  the  big 
front  hall.  "Every  one  of  us  will  go.  I  consider  it  a 
duty." 

"I  think  Fd  go  if  I  were  you,  Mrs.  Baird,"  Mrs.  Tip- 
ton's  little  high  voice  came  in,  and  when  I  turned  to  her, 
surprised,  "I  believe  I'd  go — and  wear  my  prettiest  dress. 
If  you  don't,  there  may  be  those  who  will  think  you're 
ashamed  to." 

"Hah !    Well  put !"  said  Mrs.  Thrasher,  in  triumph. 

"I'll  pay  for  plates  for  the  whole  crowd,"  little  Mr. 
Martin  clinched  it.  "Two,  five,  seven,  eight,"  counting 
with  sprightly  pokes  of  his  forefinger;  "oh,  eight  dollars 
wouldn't  break  anybody." 

It  seemed  to  be  settled.  Miss  Creevey,  Mrs.  Martin  and 
Mrs.  Tutt — to  say  nothing  of  Ermentrude — dashed  right 
into  discussions  of  what  I  was  to  wear,  as  though  it  had 
been  my  coming  out  party.  There  was  no  chance  for  me  to 
go  dressed  inconspicuously  in  street  clothes;  my  recent 
extravagance,  a  white  crepe  de  Chine  evening  dress  that 
I'd  never  worn  yet,  was  the  only  thing  they  would  agree  to. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
BELSHAZZAE'S  FEAST 

THE  banquet  was  for  Saturday  night.  Days  before 
that  the  advance  fringes  of  the  Army  of  the  Un- 
employed which  was  that  winter  wandering  up  the  coast 
from  Los  Angeles  had  been  drifting  into  town.  By  the 
middle  of  the  week  we  had  a  whole  detachment.  They 
were  on  their  way  to  Sacramento,  then  for  Washington, 
as  Coxey's  army  once  went.  San  Vicente,  more  merciful 
than  other  towns  where  they  had  halted  to  recruit,  did  not 
warn  them  away,  arrest  their  leaders,  or  drive  them  out 
with  fire  hose. 

Among  them  were  lots  of  seasonal  workers.  I  saw  a 
good  many  who  had  picked  hops  on  Las  Palmas ;  and  Fri- 
day afternoon  I  met  Sonya  Pochin  on  the  street  with  one 
of  her  little  brothers.  She  was  fearfully  thin,  her  big  black 
eyes  were  like  coals. 

"Is  there  something  I  could  do  for  you,  Sonya?"  I 
asked.  And  she  answered, 

"Yes — come  to  the  mass  meeting  we're  getting  up — • 
Fairyland  rink,  next  Monday.  And  say  to  everybody  you 
talk  to,  'Not  another  pound  of  hops  picked  in  California 
till  Cluett  and  Monroe  are  free !' ' 

"Oh,  Sonya" — my  heart  did  ache  for  the  girl — "I  want 
to  do  something  for  you — yourself." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Never  mind  me — there  are  plenty  of  others  worse 
off." 

I  had  to  leave  it  at  that. 

When,  on  Saturday  evening,  the  eight  of  us  started 
down  to  Snow's  in  the  street-car,  we  passed  what  the 
Army  called  bivouac  fires  near  the  curb,  where  the  police 

339 


840  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

were  allowing  them,  on  Clarke  street,  which  was  wider, 
cobble  paved,  and  less  used.  At  some  there  was  music; 
they  had  marched  that  day,  carrying  placards  with  Sonya's 
exact  words  about  picking  no  hops  till  Cluett  and  Monroe 
were  free;  I  saw  it  was  a  slogan.  They  huddled  now 
around  their  fires,  chilly  and  pitiful.  We  turned  into  Main 
street  and  left  them  behind  us ;  ahead  was  the  long  line  of 
motors  already  standing  in  front  of  Snow's. 

When  we  got  upstairs,  we  found  the  Pompeiian  Court 
almost  full.  Hundreds  of  guests  were  getting  seated  at 
the  twelve  or  fifteen  long  tables.  The  eight  places  reserved 
for  us  were  in  line,  side  by  side,  where  we  would  get  a 
good  view  of  the  whole  room.  As  we  worked  our  way  in  to 
them,  I  saw  many  faces  I  knew.  Dr.  Rush  and  his  wife 
signalled  greetings  to  me,  and  that  drew  Delia  Watkins's 
attention  my  way.  Very  grand  in  her  mauve  and  paradise 
aigrette,  she  was  just  being  seated  between  the  two  Mrs. 
McBrides,  but  the  look  she  gave  my  white  crepe  de  Chine, 
and  my  company — the  perfectly  good  Poinsettia  crowd — 
was  as  though  something  hurt  her  feelings.  Well,  she  had 
waited  and  found  out. 

All  the  rushing  about  and  whispered  consultation 
seemed  more  than  would  have  been  necessary  to  get  the 
people  seated ;  anyone  could  see  that  something  besides  a 
banquet  was  being  prepared  for.  There  was  a  sort  of 
thrill  running  through  everything.  While  the  last  arrivals 
were  coming  in  and  finding  chairs,  we  had  a  chance  to 
look  about  and  exchange  comments.  At  the  long  table 
across  the  head  of  the  room,  for  speakers  and  press,  I 
recognised  a  man  from  the  San  Francisco  "Examiner,"  a 
young  woman  from  the  "Bulletin,"  caught  sight  of  Mr. 
Stokes's  big  bushy  head,  and  got  the  light-blue  gleam  of 
Rosalie's  one  evening  frock.  She  wig-wagged  to  us,  then 
came  sidling  over  with  that  odd  little  shuffle  of  hers,  the 
good  shoulder  a  bit  advanced.  Her  air  was  strictly  busi- 
nesslike, but  she  only  bent  and  whispered  in  my  ear, 


BELSHAZZAR'S  FEAST  341 

"Gosh,  Cal,  you're  swell  to-night!  I  just  had  to  come 
and  bring  you  the  good  word.  Prettiest  thing  in  the  room, 
bar  none — you  ol'  hop  picker !" 

She  thumped  my  shoulder  affectionately.  Mrs.  Thrash- 
er, next  to  me,  reached  out,  took  hold  of  her  and  began  to 
talk  in  a  lowered  tone. 

Delia's  "nice  people"  were  certainly  here.  The  Court 
held  what  I  knew  Rosalie  was  going  to  call  "a  representa- 
tive gathering  of  San  Vicente's  best."  They  were  tubbed 
and  scrubbed  and  dressed  up,  properly  behaved,  each  with 
his  afflictions — if  he  had  any — stowed  in  the  bottom  of  his 
own  heart.  They  sat  waiting  for  their  meal  at  white- 
spread  tables,  with  shining  water-bottles  and  tumblers  full 
of  clinking  ice,  the  fountain  sounding  through  a  murmur 
of  low-toned,  well-bred  talk.  How  could  Las  Palmas  camp 
with  its  dirt  and  drouth,  its  thirst  and  smells  and  uncouth 
sufferings  be  brought  here  ?  I  kept  asking  myself  this  all 
through  the  banquet,  and  I  didn't  get  any  answer  until 
the  banquet  was  over  and  we  were  ready  for  the  real  busi- 
ness of  the  evening. 

Then  the  chairs  rasped  noisily  as  they  were  dragged 
around  to  get  us  all  seated  facing  the  upper  table,  at  the 
centre  of  which  Mrs.  Hoard  already  sat,  Milt  Stanley  at 
her  left,  Harvey  Watkins,  the  frock-coated,  solemn-faced 
prosecutor  from  Chavez  county,  and  both  McBrides.  The 
Stanleys  were  at  a  little  table  by  themselves  almost  in 
front  of  her ;  and  on  her  right  Arnold  Llewellyn,  who  had 
so  gallantly  conducted  the  losing  fight  for  the  pickers,  sat 
alone.  Where  were  his  people  ?  What  was  he  depending 
on? 

There  was  a  curious  new  sound  at  the  rear  of  the  room 
— a  stir  and  shuffling  of  feet.  I  half  rose  and  looked  over 
the  heads. 

"What  is  it?  Who's  coming?  Can  you  see?"  whis- 
pered Mr.  Martin. 

Next  moment  there  was  no  need  to  ask ;  he  could  see  for 


342  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

himself.  Our  dollar-a-plate  respectability  was  being 
invaded  from  the  street  below.  They  came  up  by  elevator 
and  stairway,  and  poured  into  the  restaurant,  quiet  and 
orderly,  as  I  had  seen  them  pour  into  the  courtroom  at 
Corinth — the  I.  W.  W.  crowd — a  delegation  from  the 
Army  of  the  Unemployed.  I  could  have  cried  to  see  how 
every  one  of  them  showed  the  effort  to  be  clean  and  decent- 
ly tidy.  The  first  comers  packed  in  a  solid  wall  along  the 
back ;  others  moved  past  and  crowded  quietly  in  behind  our 
chairs ;  then  they  began  streaming  up  the  steps  and  filling 
the  long  musicians'  gallery.  There  were  dozens  that  I'd 
known  at  Las  Palmas,  many  who  had  testified  at  the  trial 
afterward.  The  attention  of  the  whole  room  was  caught 
by  the  white  face  and  burning  eyes  of  a  girl  in  the  front 
row,  against  the  balcony  rail,  leaning  down,  so  that  those 
behind  could  see. 

"How  odd  looking!"  whispered  Mrs.  Martin. 

"Yes — and  sort  of  terrible,"  added  Mrs.  Tutt. 

"She's  awfully  handsome,"  said  Ermentrude. 

It  was  Sonya  Pochin. 

The  answer  to  my  question  had  walked  in  on  our  aston- 
ished gathering  of  comfortable,  well-off  people;  Las  Pal- 
mas Labour  Camp  was  here.  This  move  Llewellyn  must 
have  been  keeping  to  himself ;  I  was  sure  it  was  a  surprise 
to  the  chairman,  and  that  as  she  got  up  and  stood  to 
formally  open  the  meeting  she  was  a  little  nervous. 

"One  point,"  she  said  emphatically,  "one  point  is  to  be 
borne  in  mind ;  speakers  must  not  be  personal.  We  are  all 
friends  here,  met  to  discuss  a  painful  matter  in  a  friendly 
way.  The  Civic  League  of  San  Vicente  has  undertaken 
this  meeting  in  the  belief  that  through  it  a  clearer  under- 
standing of  what  happened  at  Las  Palmas  ranch  can  be 
reached.  But  we  cannot  do  this  if  personalities  are 
allowed  to  heat  and  cloud  the  discussion.  Speakers  must 
not  be  personal."  She  introduced  Mr.  Milton  Stanley. 

Milt — Mr.  Stanley  had  as  usual  put  hiiu  forward  to 


BELSHAZZAR'S  FEAST  343 

bear  the  brunt — opened  the  argument,  reading  in  a  low, 
husky,  frightened  voice  affidavits  and  resolutions  from 
some  Chamber  of  Commerce,  and  other  public  associa- 
tions, showing  that  the  owner  of  Las  Palmas  was  a  man  of 
the  highest  standing,  a  valued  member  of  the  community, 
a  public-spirited  citizen.  The  gallery,  except  for  Sonya's 
tragic  face,  was  soon  one  broad  grin.  It  was  a  bad  begin- 
ning. Someone  standing  behind  my  chair  whispered 
hoarsely, 

"Say  your  say,  my  little  man.  What  we'll  do  to  you 
when  our  side  gets  the  floor'll  be  a-plenty." 

Milt  had  a  great  stack  of  the  stuff,  and  he  read  on  and 
on.  Mr.  Stanley  listened,  I  suppose,  though  he  never 
looked  up,  and  his  wife  kept  leaning  over  and  whispering 
to  him.  It  was  the  well-bred  banqueters  who  got  restless 
and  bored.  Llewellyn  made  no  move  to  interrupt  or  an- 
swer till  Milt  got  on  to  the  Corinth  fruit  dealer's  receipt 
for  lemons  bought  by  Las  Palmas — this  was  to  clean  up 
the  record  of  that  chemical  lemonade  that  Luella  had 
peddled.  Llewellyn  hopped  up  and  shouted, 

"Yes,  sir,  and  we've  got  a  copy  of  a  receipt  from  a  Cor- 
inth druggist's  books  for  the  acetic  acid  you  folks  bought 
on  August  3rd — enough  of  it  to  turn  San  Benito  creek 
sour.  Didn't  need  many  lemons  after  that,  did  you  ?  Just 
enough  to  float  some  slices  on  the  top  of  the  barrel — hey  ? 
How  many  have  you  got  a  receipt  for  ?" 

"Tut — tut — two  boxes,"  quavered  Milt,  and  a  titter 
went  over  the  whole  room.  After  that  Harvey  and  the 
McBrides  and  the  attorney  from  Chavez  took  the  argu- 
ment out  of  Milt's  helpless  hands,  and  we  saw  with  what 
skill  Arnold  Llewellyn  was  going  to  use  these  hop 
pickers  who  had  chanced  to  come  into  San  Vicente  with 
the  Army  of  the  Unemployed.  In  the  discussion  that  fol- 
lowed, where  Mrs.  Hoard  had  to  bring  both  sides  up  short 
again  and  again  with,  "If  you  please — if  you  please — we 
mustn't  be  personal,"  he  kept  using  these  living  presences 


344  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

against  the  windy  generalities  of  the  other  side.  Some- 
times in  speaking,  he'd  just  point  to  them,  sometimes  they 
were  called  on  to  answer,  to  deny  assertions. 

I  glanced  around;  certainly  those  who  heard  would 
never  be  able  to  forget  it.  The  Stanley  cause  was  going 
from  bad  to  worse;  what  the  newspapers  had  said  was 
nothing  to  this ;  and  here  they  had  it  face  to  face.  I  never 
before  saw  Lucius  Stanley  seem  dashed.  Mrs.  Stanley 
kept  braiding  the  trimming  of  her  wrap  with  nervous 
fingers.  Their  paid  lawyers  did  the  best  they  could  with  a 
bad  case;  Mrs.  Hoard  interposed  several  times  to  enforce 
her  rule  against  personalities. 

"Quite  right — quite  right,"  Llewellyn  cheerfully 
agreed.  "And  now  we'll  close  with  the  most  impersonal 
thing  we've  got — a  government  report." 

"You  have  the  floor,  Mr.  Llewellyn,"  in  evident  relief. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  won't  bore  you.  I'll  not  be 
long.  Just  a  few  brief  passages  from  the  government  report 
on  labour  camps  in  the  state  of  California  last  fall — 
where  it  touched  Las  Palmas  ranch,  I  mean.  After  that  I 
don't  think  we  have  anything  more  to  say.  If  the  other 
side  has — after  that — I  shall  be  surprised.  Ladies  and 
gentlemen,  I  read  from  the  report  of  the  government  inves- 
tigator, an  authority  on  these  matters — Mr.  Philip  Stan- 
ley." 

I  can't  be  very  clear  about  what  happened  after  that.  I 
know  that  Mrs.  Hoard  was  on  her  feet,  trying  to  make 
some  sort  of  protest,  and  then  she  couldn't  properly,  and 
sat  down.  I  only  wanted  to  keep  a  straight  face — I  felt 
everybody  in  my  party  was  watching  me.  I  stared  across 
the  room  above  the  heads  of  the  people,  but  I  saw  out  of 
the  side  of  my  eye  how  Mr.  Stanley,  his  hands  on  the  top 
of  his  cane,  looked  straight  at  the  floor,  while  she  sat 
frigid. 

Up  at  Corinth,  Philip's  testimony  had  been  heard  in  a 
court  of  law.  Here  was  a  room  full  of  their  own  sort  of 


BELSHAZZARJS  FEAST  345 

people,  at  a  social  function,  sitting  to  listen  while  the  word 
of  their  own  son  condemned  them.  The  room  was  still 
as  death  as  Llewellyn  read.  He  just  took  little  bits  from 
the  report — those  that  would  hit  hardest  and  cut  deepest. 
I  could  fairly  feel  that  crowd  of  people  freezing  toward 
the  Stanleys  with  every  word.  And  they  felt  it,  too. 
Harvey  jumped  up  and  came  around  the  end  of  the  table 
to  them.  The  three  heads  were  close  together,  and  he  was 
whispering  energetically,  when  Llewellyn  rounded  up  his 
extracts  with, 

"There!  Now  you  know  why  these  people  have  been 
parading  your  streets  with  the  slogan,  'NOT  ANOTHER 
POUND  OF  HOPS  PICKED  IN  CALIFORNIA 
TILL  CLUETT  AND  MONROE  ARE  FREE !'  You 
wouldn't  blame  them  if  they  said  'not  another  hop  picked 
on  Las  Palmas  ranch.' ' 

"Your  threats  do  not  reach  my  clients,"  Harvey 
straightened  up  from  his  consultation.  "They  are  no 
longer  interested  in  hop  raising  or  hop  picking.  Las  Pal- 
mas ranch  doesn't  belong  to  them — it's  changed  hands. 
Your  people  can  riot  all  over  it  next  year — the  new  own- 
ers will  have  to  meet  the  situation  as  best  they  can." 

New  owners  for  Las  Palmas?  Chavez  county  was 
interested  in  the  ranch — and  so  in  them.  The  attorney 
spoke  up  for  their  cause,  with, 

"I  still  question  that  point  about  the  drinking  water. 
That's  hearsay.  The  investigator  who  made  the  report  was 
never  on  the  ranch  till  the  day  of  the  riot." 

Mrs.  Hoard,  on  her  feet,  put  out  a  silencing  hand 
toward  him. 

"Pardon  me.  Haven't  we  had  enough  personalities? 
Can't  we  close  this  meeting  now  with  the  feeling  that  both 
sides  to  this  discussion  have  been  given  a  sufficient  hear- 
ing?" 

"I  suppose  you  can,"  said  the  Chavez  coumty  man 
ungraciously.  "And  the  last  thing  that'll  stand  against 


346  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

us  is  the  hearsay  gatherings  from  the  notebook  of  a  man 
who  probably  doesn't  know  how  hop  picking  is " 

At  that  point  there  came  a  startling  interruption.  Mrs. 
Thrasher  had  been  nudging  me  and  gurgling,  "You  know 
all  about  that.  Get  up,  why  don't  you,  and  answer  him  ?" 
But  it  was  Sonya  Pochin's  voice  that  soared  out  from  the 
gallery. 

"What's  the  matter  with  hearing  from  somebody  who 
was  there  and  knows?" 

They  all  stared  up  at  her.  She  had  straightened  from 
her  bending  position,  and  stood  looking  down  at  the  room 
almost  as  if  she  didn't  see  it,  a  desolate  figure,  with  her 
thin  face  and  burning  eyes,  the  clean  decency  of  her  black 
calico  mourning  dress. 

"I  picked  hops  on  Las  Palmas  last  August,"  she  cried. 
"Water?  The  dirty  stuff  from  those  foul  wells  would 
give  out  before  the  day  was  half  over.  I've  seen  the  time 
in  those  fields  that  I'd  almost  have  sold  my  soul  for  the 
clean  water  you  folks  had  in  your  finger  bowls  to-night. 
What  do  you  know  about  it  ?  Up  at  the  grand  house  where 
the  Stanleys — people  of  your  sort — lived,  they  were  throw- 
ing away  gallons  on  the  lawn,  with  their  sprinklers — and 
little  sick  children  over  in  the  camp  crying  for  just  one 
cool  drink!" 

Mrs.  Stanley's  head  for  the  first  time  drooped.  I  saw 
her  fumbling  for  a  handkerchief,  turning  aside,  edging 
it  up  to  her  face.  Here  was  something  that  reached  her  at 
last. 

"We  mustn't  be  personal,  the  lady  says,"  Sonya's  big 
tones  went  on.  "I  am  not  personal.  I've  been  in  your 
jail — not  for  any  crime — just  because  I  was  a  witness. 
My  father,  Abraham  Pochin,  killed  himself  in  your  jail- 
under  your  torments.  Yet  what  are  you  to  me  ?"  she 
included  us  all  with  a  gesture.  "A  handful  of  dry  leaves 
shaken  in  the  wind.  You  sit  there  and  think  it  will  always 
be  this  way — always  this  way  with  you — always  this  way 


BELSHAZZAR'S  FEAST  347 

with  us.  You  listen  to  our  cause,  and  do  not  know  what 
you  have  heard.  Those  rich  people  there  think  they  can 
sell  their  ranch  and  run  away  from  what  they  have  done. 
They  can't  do  it.  We  remember — God  remembers — and 
their  own  son  testifies  against  them  I" 

"Oh!" 

I  don't  know  whether  I  cried  out,  or  someone  near  me ; 
I  was  never  sure  whether  the  shock  I  felt  went  all  through 
the  room,  or  was  just  the  clutch  of  my  own  heart,  at 
Sonya's  words.  But,  anyhow,  the  next  moment  we  were 
all  on  our  feet  and  Mrs.  Hoard  was  dismissing  the  meet- 
ing. The  instant  she  finished,  people  began  hustling  about 
to  get  their  wraps  and  leave.  They  pushed  in  between  us 
and  the  head  of  the  room,  so  that  we  couldn't  see  what 
was  going  on  up  there,  but  there  seemed  to  be  some  hand- 
shaking between  the  two  factions.  I  got  one  glimpse,  as 
the  crowd  divided  a  moment,  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stanley 
drawn  together,  apart  from  the  others  in  close  consultation 
with  Harvey  Watkins.  A  second  glimpse  showed  their 
places  vacant,  and  Harvey,  hat  in  hand,  elbowing  his  way 
down  the  room  like  a  man  on  an  urgent  errand.  My  peo- 
ple didn't  get  toward  the  entrance  very  fast,  because  they 
stopped  to  talk  with  everybody.  The  mildest  of  them  was 
fairly  crowing  over  what  had  happened.  I  thought  we'd 
never  get  off.  Then  I  saw  one  of  the  maids  squeezing  her 
way  through  in  our  direction.  She  touched  my  arm  and 
offered  a  card.  I  took  it  hesitatingly,  and  read  the  en- 
graved name,  "Mrs.  Lucius  Cincinnatus  Stanley."  Below 
it,  written  in  pencil,  "Will  you  please  come  to  the  writing- 
room  for  a  few  moments  ?" 

I  looked  at  the  girl  bewildered,  and  was  beginning, 

"Why  we're  going  now — I  couldn't "  when  Mrs. 

Thrasher,  who  had  been  frankly  reading  across  my 
shoulder,  jerked  my  wrap  from  Mr.  Martin's  arm  and 
threw  it  over  my  own,  saying, 

"Go  right  along  with  the  girl.    We'll  wait  Here  for  you." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

A  WITNESS 

THE  little  writing-room  toward  which  the  maid  led 
opened  off  from  the  head  of  the  Court.  Up  here  it 
was  all  deserted,  everybody  crowding  out  toward  the  ele- 
vators. As  we  got  near,  I  could  see  by  the  one  small  drop- 
light  Mrs.  Stanley  sitting  there  at  a  desk;  her  eyes  fol- 
lowed her  husband,  who  paced  up  and  down  the  small 
place. 

For  a  moment  that  was  all  I  saw.  I  twisted  the  card 
in  my  hands.  They  don't  kill  people  twice;  that  woman 
in  there  had  sent  for  me  once,  and  when  I  went  to  her  she 
had  murdered  my  youth,  my  joy  of  life,  my  faith,  my 
pride  in  my  lover.  Well,  I  had  nothing  left  that  she  could 
take  from  me  now.  I  went  forward  and  stopped  in  the 
doorway,  with  my  head  held  high.  From  the  shadows 
there  came  toward  me  a  tall  girl  in  white,  dark-eyed, 
flushed,  excited  looking.  Mr.  Stanley  rose  and  was  speak- 
ing. He  half  wheeled  at  the  end  of  the  room  and  looked 
at  me  from  under  lowered  brows,  before  I  realised  that  the 
tall  girl  in  white  was  myself,  reflected  in  a  long  mirror 
that  faced  the  entrance. 

"It  was  very  kind  of  you  to  come,"  Mrs.  Stanley  said 
formally.  "We're  waiting — Mr.  Stanley  and  I  have  sent 
for Would  you  just  sit  over  here  ?" 

I  saw  the  chair  she  meant,  the  only  other  in  the  room,  on 
the  further  side  of  the  desk.  But  I  stood  where  I  was 
and  said, 

"Mrs.  Stanley,  what  do  you  want  of  me?  My  people 
are  down  there,  they'd  like  to  go  home." 

She  looked  out  through  the  doorway,  then  glanced 
toward  her  husband  and  suggested, 

348 


A  WITNESS  349 

"We  could  see  that  you  get  home." 

"Oh,  they'll  stay,"  I  said  quickly.  "But  I  don't  like 
to  keep  them  too  long."  I  went  over  and  sat  down.  She 
moved  at  once  to  her  husband's  side.  They  stood  between 
me  and  the  door. 

"I  hope  it  will  only  be  a  few  minutes."  I  thought  she 
spoke  as  much  to  him  as  to  me.  "We're  waiting  ourselves. 
We've  sent  for Oh,  here  he  comes." 

I  shrank  together  on  my  chair.  I  had  walked  in  con- 
fident that  there  was  nothing  more  the  Stanleys  could  do  to 
me ;  I  had  let  her  keep  me,  till — there  in  the  doorway,  the 
only  exit,  stood  Philip.  He  didn't  see  me,  back  in  my 
shadowed  corner,  for  the  minute  he  made  his  appearance 
his  father  jumped  at  him  with, 

"Well,  you  got  here  at  last.    Did  Harvey  tell  you —  ?" 

It  was  like  iron  on  iron  when  Philip  answered, 

"I  didn't  ask  Watkins  what  it  was  you  wanted  of  me — 
now.  I  was  surprised  to  hear  from  you  at  all.  I  thought 
the  thing  was  settled  when  I  refused  the  trade  you  offered 
me  through  him  this  morning." 

"Trade !"  Lucius  Stanley  snapped  at  the  word ;  but  his 
wife  put  in  hastily, 

"Philip,  tell  us  just  what  you  understood  this  morning's 
offer  to  be." 

"That  if  I'd  come  and  behave  like  a  son,  I'd  be  treated 
as  a  son."  He  nodded  backward  toward  the  Court. 
"Show  up  with  you  here  to-night." 

"What  was  the  matter  with  that  ?"  his  father  demanded. 
"It  seems  to  me  very  generous.  What's  the  matter  with 
it?" 

"Everything,"  said  Philip  shortly.  "This  is  no  affair 
of  mine.  You,  not  I,  have  made  the  name  of  Stanley  stink. 
I  suppose  you  both  hate — just  as  I  do — to  put  it  on  a  hotel 
register." 

Still  nobody  oioticed  me,  although  ithey  had  moved 
slowly  inward  as  they  talked.  At  his  son's  words,  Lucius 


350  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

Stanley  wheeled  and  charged  toward  the  curtained  door- 
way as  though  to  leave,  but  stopped  there,  his  back  to  us. 
His  wife  glanced  at  that  back,  then  toward  her  son. 

"You're  a  hard  man,  Philip,"  she  said.  "When  you 
were  a  little  boy — "  She  paused.  "And  afterward — 
when  you  were  older " 

She  broke  off  entirely  and  stood  looking  at  him. 

"Mother,"  her  son  answered  the  look,  "we're  what  we 
are.  If  I'd  been  soft,  instead  of  hard,  you  and  father 
would  have  flattened  me  out  pretty  thin,  wouldn't  you? 
Children  grow  the  necessary  weapons  for  their  family 
environment.  It  doesn't  seem  to  me  you  ought  to  com- 
plain." 

"Well,  well,  let  that  pass.  We're  making  a  new  offer — 
one  that  I  think  will  certainly  please  you." 

They  stood  there  at  the  end  of  the  long  battle,  which 
must  have  begun  in  Philip's  very  babyhood.  Father, 
mother,  son,  they  knew  nothing  but  the  struggle  they  were 
in.  What  should  I  do  when  Philip  finally  noticed  that  I 
was  there — that  I  had  been  there,  hearing  it  all? 

"Mother,"  there  was  a  startling  thrill  of  passion  in  his 
voice,  "I  say  no,  before  I  hear  what  it  is  you  are  offering. 
No !  Ever  since  I  can  remember,  my  life  at  home  was  a 
succession  of  explosions — beatings,  then  bargainings, 
threatening  to  send  me  to  jail — offering  me  a  chance  to 
save  my  hide  by  giving  up  the  girl  I  wanted.  You  and 
father  would  have  traded  the  boy's  soul  out  of  my  fool 
young  body  if  you'd  had  your  way." 

My  face  burned.  Why  had  I  been  dragged  in  to  listen 
to  this  ?  Before  I  knew  what  I  was  doing  I  had  jumped 
up  and  was  making  for  the  door.  Then  they  wheeled  and 
stared  at  me. 

"Gallic !"  Philip  cried  out. 

"I'm  going!"  I  was  getting  past  them.  "I've  got  no 
business  here."  Down  by  the  stairhead  at  the  other  end  of 
the  Court,  I  could  see  Mrs.  Thrasher  and  the  others. 


A  WITNESS  351 

"No,  no.  I  forgot  you.  I'm  sorry.  Wait  a  minute." 
Mrs.  Stanley  put  herself  in  front  of  me  and  stopped  me. 
"Lu,"  to  her  husband,  "go  tell  those  people  that  we'll  see 
to  taking  Mrs.  Baird  home." 

He  bolted  out,  glad  enough  to  go.  Philip,  watching  my 
disturbed  face,  suggested, 

"I  could  take  you  home,  Gallic.  My  machine's  down 
there.  How  would  that  do?" 

Mrs.  Stanley  glanced  at  us  oddly,  then  went  to  the  desk, 
and  stood  there  fingering  a  paper  that  lay  on  it. 

"Why,  I  guess  so,"  I  answered  Philip.  "It  doesn't 
make  any  difference."  And  I  couldn't  conceal  a  little 
nervous  shiver  that  went  over  me. 

Instantly  he  lifted  the  wrap  from  my  arm  and  put  it 
around  me.  And  just  then  Mr.  Stanley  got  back,  breath- 
ing a  little  short.  He  took  us  in  at  a  look,  and  inquired 
sharply, 

"Well,  have  you  told  him  ?" 

"Why,  no,  Lucius,  we  waited  for  you,"  said  his  wife. 

"Waited  for  me  to  say  it,  heh  ?  Well,  Philip,  I  judge 
from  that  report  of  yours  they  read  this  evening  that  you 
believe  you  know  better  than  I  do  how  to  run  a  hop  ranch. 
You  think  if  you  had  Las  Palmas  there  would  have  been 
no  labour  troubles  on  it." 

"There  would  be  no  labour  troubles  on  any  ranch  I  had 
the  management  of,"  came  the  answer. 

"All  right,  sir — you'll  get  a  chance  to  try  that  out. 
Your  mother  and  I  have  about  made  up  our  minds  to  offer 
you " 

"Milt's  position?     No,  thank  you." 

"Your  father  doesn't  mean  that,"  Mrs.  Stanley 
came  in  between  them.  "He  doesn't  mean  anything 
of  the  sort.  Las  Palmas  stands  in  my  name,  Philip. 
I  never  want  to  see  the  place  again.  Will  you  take  it 
over  ?" 

"I'm  sorry,  mother."  Philip  spoke  with  more  deference ; 


352  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

"but  really,  I  can't  see  iny  way  to  managing  the  property 
for  you." 

"Would  you  manage  Las  Palmas  if  you  owned  it?  I 
don't  want  to  give  the  ranch  to  you  and  have  you  sell  it. 
It  wouldn't  bring  its  value  now.  If  it  belonged  to  you, 
would  you  go  ahead  with  it — keep  it  for  the  present,  any- 
how? 

"Do  you  mean  an  outright  deed  of  gift  ?" 

"I  should  think — "  Mr.  Stanley  was  beginning,  when 
Philip  interrupted, 

"Let  mother  answer,  if  you  please,  sir.  In  this  matter 
of  property  you  know  that  I  feel  that  I  have  some 
rights—" 

"And  plenty  of  wrongs,"  snorted  the  older  man. 

Philip  didn't  flare  up  at  the  taunt.  But  again  it  was 
iron  on  iron  as  he  answered  coldly, 

"Well,  if  you  and  mother  want  to  give  me  the  ranch — 
without  a  string  to  it — I'm  willing  to  take  it.  We  might 
shake  hands  on  so  much." 

And  they  did.  It  was  a  strange  thing  to  see.  Again 
Mr.  Stanley  stepped  to  the  door. 

"Watkins !"  he  called.    "We're  ready  for  you  now." 

Harvey  must  have  been  prowling  right  at  hand  He 
came  instantly. 

"Oh,  bring  your  wife,"  Mr.  Stanley  added.  "We've 
only  got  one  witness  here."  And  Mrs.  Stanley  turned  to 
me  with, 

"That's  what  I  sent  for  you  for.  I  have  the  deed 
ready ;  and  I  thought  you  might  care  to  witness  it." 

"Certainly,"  I  said,  and  my  voice  was  steady. 

Harvey  and  Delia  came  in;  the  formality  was  gone 
through  of  signing  and  witnessing  a  deed  of  gift  for  Las 
Palmas  ranch,  in  Chavez  county,  from  Adelaide  Fielding 
Stanley  to  her  son  Philip  Stanley,  "in  consideration  of 
love  and  affection." 

Harvey  bore  it  better  than  Delia.    As  a  lawyer  he  would 


A  WITNESS  353 

have  often  to  meet  people  where  the  circumstances  were — 
or  should  have  been— embarrassing  to  him.  Yet  he  never 
once  looked  me  squarely  in  the  face.  At  my  knuckles  as  I 
wrote,  at  my  elbow,  the  fringe  of  my  wrap  that  swept 
across  the  table — but  never  in  my  face.  Delia,  hushed, 
subdued,  in  spite  of  her  mauve,  her  paradise  aigrette,  put 
her  name  down  as  witness,  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of 
this  impossible  group  of  people,  and  said  doubtfully, 

"Foncie — I — I'm  sure  I'm  glad  that  it  was  true,  after 
all.  I  congratulate  you." 

I  stood  there,  not  a  word  said;  Mrs.  Stanley  lingered. 

"Well,"  said  her  husband  impatiently,  "Adelaide,  are 
you  coming?" 

"Yes,  yes,  Lu,"  she  answered,  still  with  that  puzzled 
look  from  her  son's  face  to  mine. 

I  tried  to  say  something,  but  couldn't  think  of  a  thing 
that  would  be  reasonable  in  this  perfectly  unreasonable 
situation.  Mr.  Stanley  caught  his  wife's  arm  and  started 
on ;  Delia  gave  Philip  a  frightened  glance  and  decided  not 
to  offer  him  any  congratulations,  but  followed  the  Stan- 
leys immediately,  Harvey  walking  beside  her. 

Without  a  word,  Philip,  facing  me,  his  eyes  on  mine, 
stowed  that  deed  in  a  breast  pocket.  We  went  down  the 
stairs — the  elevators  had  stopped  running — and  out 
through  the  darkened  store,  its  counters  piled  with  goods 
and  covered.  The  only  words  spoken  between  us  were  the 
few  that  concerned  his  putting  me  into  his  machine  which 
stood  at  the  curb.  The  other  cars  that  had  stood  there 
when  we  came  in  were  all  gone. 

"The  Poinsettia,"  he  said  as  we  started  out.  "Arbolado 
and  Fortieth  ?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered  very  low.  (If  I  could  just  get 
home!)  "I  have  the  back-yard  bungalow  there." 

We  whirled  through  the  business  part  of  town,  all  silent 
now,  with  darkened  shop  windows,  past  the  dying  bivouac 
fires  on  Clarke  street,  a  few  humped  figures  around  them. 


354  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

"Poor  devils !"  said  Philip  absently ;  then,  as  I  shivered 
again,  "Cold  ?  We'll  soon  be  there  now." 

"Yes — no — it  doesn't  matter,"  I  halted  out.  He  didn't 
appear  to  notice.  He  drove  fast,  staring  straight  ahead 
of  him,  plainly  in  a  hurry  to  get  me  home — where  I  would 
have  to  thank  him,  and  bid  him  a  civil  good-night.  I 
braced  myself  for  that  moment ;  I  thought  I  was  ready  for 
it  when  he  brought  the  wheels  to  a  stop  at  the  opening  of 
the  green  alleyway,  got  out  and  reached  to  help  me. 

"This  it  ?"  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

I  wanted  desperately  to  say  that  decent  good-night  there, 
and  make  an  end.  But  the  words  wouldn't  come.  I  let 
him  walk  with  me  back  to  my  door.  Orma,  who  had  been 
sitting  with  Boy,  heard  us  coming,  and  called,  "Good- 
night, Mrs.  Baird,"  as  she  slipped  out  the  side  way. 

And  there,  in  the  shadow  of  the  vine,  where  his  face  was 
hidden  from  me,  Philip  didn't  say  a  word — left  it  all  to 
me.  A  sort  of  rage  against  him  rose  in  my  heart;  the 
despairing  rage  that  tears  so  because  it  is  against  the  one 
we  love.  I  spoke  abruptly. 

"I  would  ask  you  in — but — " 

"You  needn't,"  he  said.     "I'm  coming." 

"Oh,  don't!"  I  cried  out.  "Haven't  I  had  enough  to 
bear  to-night?" 

His  answer  was  to  catch  my  wrists  and  pull  me  with 
him  into  the  lighted  house  where  he  could  see  my  face. 
His  own  looked  grim  and  pale. 

"What?"  he  said,  "what?  Callie,  just  what  do  you 
mean  by  that?" 

"You  know  well  enough."  I  was  afraid  I'd  break  down 
and  cry.  "Oh,  if  you'd  only  go  away !  You  needn't  think 
you  have  to — " 

I  couldn't  get  any  further;  I  stood  mute  and  looked  at 
him,  there  in  my  little  sitting-room — after  all  these  years 
— Philip.  Philip,  with  his  faults  and  virtues  upon  him — 


A  WITNESS  355 

I  had  seen  them  both  in  full  display  to-night — and  after 
all,  the  only  man  in  the  world  for  me.  I  felt  a  dreary 
certainty  that  it  would  always  be  so.  In  the  old  days  he 
had  been  like  a  young  prince;  yet  he  was  helpless,  too, 
when  it  came  to  our  parting;  I  had  never  held  bitterness 
against  him  for  that.  But  now — a  rich  man,  and  free — 
that  he  should  throw  me  a  crumb  of  civility  in  saying 
good-bye — that  he  should  insist  on  doing  so !  I  couldn't 
keep  up — I  couldn't  carry  it  through.  I  lifted  the  hands 
that  he  still  held  by  the  wrists  and  put  them  over  my 
face. 

"Callie." 

I  dared  not  believe  what  I  heard  in  the  tones  of  his  voice 
as  he  spoke  my  name.  I  dared  not  look  up.  And  he  said 
it  again. 

"Callie,  listen  to  me — I'm  going  to  make  you  listen." 

Oh,  it  bridged  the  seven  years.  Love,  what  has  it  to 
do  with  time  ?  When  he  caught  me  to  him,  I  was  a  girl 
again  in  Philip's  arms,  under  the  oaks  in  Kesterson's 
pasture.  Gently  he  pushed  one  of  my  hands  away,  slipped 
his  own  in  about  my  cheek,  and  stood  looking  down  at  me. 

"How  many  times  I've  dreamed  of  you — like  this,"  he 
said  huskily.  "Never  good  dreams,  Callie.  They  couldn't 
be.  I'd  behaved  like  a  dog  to  you.  When  it  was  too  late — 
when  you  were  married — I'd  have  crawled  on  my  knees 
to  get  you.  And  then  when  you  were  free  again — I  knew 
the  first  minute  I  saw  you  standing  there  on  the  store  porch 
at  Las  Palmas  that  you'd  got  over  loving  me — that  part  of 
the  time  you  pretty  well  hated  me " 

"I  don't!    Philip,  I— 

"I'm  not  blaming  you.  I  didn't  blame  you  even  that 
first  day,  when  you  gave  me  such  a  broadside  without  ever 
meaning  it.  I  saw  you  trying  to  be  decent  to  me.  You 
didn't  like  to  look  at  me — never  spoke  to  me  if  you  could 
help  it.  It  was  hard  to  take;  but  I  did  take  it.  You 
notice  I  always  came  back  for  my  licking.  Callie,  I  walked 


356  THE  STRAIGHT  ROAD 

in  here  to-night  to  ask  you  to  marry  me.    No  —  to  tell  you 
that  you've  got  to  do  it." 


"You  needn't  tell  me  any  of  those  things  !  —  I  failed  you 
once  —  you  can't  trust  me  —  you  don't  love  me  ?  I'll  never 
fail  you  again,  dear  —  I'm  going  to  trust  myself  —  and  / 
love  you" 

He  held  me  a  minute  just  looking  at  me. 

"I  intended  this  from  the  first,  when  I  had  anything  to 
offer  you,  and  now  would  I  let  you  slave  alone  when  I'll 
have  plenty  —  plenty?"  A  little  shake  of  my  shoulder. 
"I  tell  you  we'll  be  married  —  to-morrow.  I'll  take  my 
chances  on  teaching  you  to  love  me  again." 

He  stopped,  then  added  softly, 

"Say  something  to  me,  dear." 

I  reached  up  and  put  my  arms  around  his  neck,  whis- 
pering, 

"I  wanted  to  say  it  all  the  time,  but  you  wouldn't 
let  me." 

THE    END 


M' 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  .FACILITY 


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